


To Help Another

by DrFish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, BAMF John Watson, Biting, Bonding, Case Fic, Come Inflation, Consensual Sex, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John Watson is a Good Doctor, Kidnapping, Knotting, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Sherlock Holmes, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sick Character, Sickfic, Violence, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25222744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFish/pseuds/DrFish
Summary: Dr. John Watson has been invalided out of the Army and he is struggling to come to terms with what's left of his life. When he agrees to help out with a difficult case at the hospital where he works as an emergency room physician, he not only saves this particular abused omega and others like him, but he discovers a new and better life for himself in the process.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Sebastian Moran, Sherlock Holmes/Charles Augustus Magnussen, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 260
Kudos: 290





	1. Broken

It had been a fairly quiet night in the ER. Dr. John Watson had successfully treated a 4 1/2 year old with a nasty ear infection and a 28 year old young man who had broken his arm falling off a skateboard (alcohol was definitely involved). He tried to savor these quiet nights when they happened, reminding himself to be thankful that he was back in civilian life. No more 20-hr marathons of triaging IED injuries and gunshot wounds, but as always, he couldn't help feeling just a little bored in a small hospital in a bland suburban community. He should be thankful because the last few nights he hadn't been faced with the disheartening task of trying in vain to interrupt the drug-fueled downward spiral of kids in their 20s who should have been in their prime. Many towns in the area had recently been hit with a spike in young people addicted to an ever-changing parade of designer drugs, which were toxicologically impossible to identify and clinically challenging to treat. The epidemic had taken root in the community of New London and the surrounding towns and it was ruining a lot of lives.

When his shift finally crawled to a finish, he signed off the floor to Dr. Jones (2 years out of residency but still had more seniority than John at St. Mary's, which is why he got the day shift when John had to work graveyard). He took the stairs down to the locker room and changed out of his scrubs into a fresh set of street cloths. He should text Greg, see if he wanted to grab a coffee or some breakfast. On second thought, Greg was having a tough time in work lately and his marriage was struggling as a result. John wanted to be a good friend, but he just couldn't shoulder other people's problems the way he could before the war. Even his work at the hospital was taking a toll. He felt so rundown. No, he would just head back to his empty apartment, have a scotch or two... or three, make some beans and toast, watch morning TV for a few hours, clean up the kitchen, and go to bed. Then, he would wake up just as the sun was setting, and do it all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

He was headed down to the parking garage when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was an apologetic text from Dr. Jones. _Non-compliant male omega, condition too delicate for restraint, probably shouldn't sedate. Could be brokebond syndrome. Haven't dealt with this before. Advice?_ John sighed. Of course he would come back up to help. It would probably only take a few minutes to calm the lad down enough to figure out what was wrong. Then he could get back on with his boring after-work routine. He went back to the locker room, grabbed his doctor's coat, and headed for the elevator that would take him back up to the 2nd floor.

Dr. John Watson was one of those fairly rare alpha doctors. While many alphas skipped higher education to enter into law enforcement, politics, or skilled trades, he knew from a young age that he wanted to go into medicine. His commanding presence, strength, and courage had made him invaluable as an army surgeon. A sniper's bullet had ended that part of his career and now he was adjusting to civilian life as an ER physician. His powerful alpha assertiveness and authority, combined with his gentle nature, genuine desire to care for those in need, cleverness, and his ability to frame himself as the non-threatening everyday-guy-next-door quickly made him the go-to man for dealing with difficult cases: alphas, betas, and omegas alike.

As soon as he passed through the doors into the ER he understood why the inexperienced beta Dr. Jones had called him to help with this particular patient. Two orderlies were standing back outside the open door to the exam room cringing as a cacophony of wails and shouting came through the doorway. Without any delay, John stepped around the orderlies, entered the room, and took in the scene. A wild-eyed young man, probably in his mid-twenties, was backed into the corner. He had the typical lithe build and short stature of an omega, he was probably about 5 feet tall. He was dressed only in his underpants, and his pale skin clung tightly to his protruding ribs and collar bones, made more prominent with each heaving breath. There was a scabby, crusted-over, and fairly recent bondmark on the left side of his neck and bruises peppered over his arms. The most concerning thing was the obvious head wound somewhere in his mop of thick, curly, dark hair. Blood was matted into the curls, spilling down into his left eye and running down his neck and onto his chest. Agitated, the boy wiped the blood from his eye with his crimson smeared fingers- squinting and blinking in an attempt to focus on the other occupants in the room. Dr. Jones was standing back behind a toppled gurney as Ms. Leeward (one of the more experienced nurses, an older woman who John had not had the opportunity to get to know yet) was crouched in front of the young man holding her hands out in a gesture of surrender.

"Now, William," Ms. Leeward cooed, "we only want to help you. We're worried about that cut on your head and we just want to finish cleaning it up and see if it needs stitches." The young man- William- was clearly not interested in being helped. "Get away from me you hag! I know you're not on my side! Let me leave! you can't keep me here! And you!," he shouted, turning towards Dr. Jones, "The only reason why you became a doctor is because you like controlling people and things. Don't touch me! You think you're better than everyone else. But you're not! You can't even keep a girlfriend because you repulse them with your macho inferiority complex!" he shouted. 

"William," John spoke gently. The bleeding omega fixed his piercing gaze on John, and squinted and swiped furiously at the blood running into his eye. He breathed in, flaring his nostrils, probably taking in the scent of the alpha as he struggled to focus his eyes on the taller man. He swayed, and stumbled, then steadied himself on the wall, leaving a bloody hand print on the white paint. He re-clenched both fists, ready for a fight. The rage coming from the battered young man was palpable, and John sensed the strong current of fear, confusion, and mistrust underneath. John knew that tender placations from strangers with promises of providing help and caring were not going to get through to him in this state, so he figured he'd take a different tack. John could take advantage of the fear and insecurity by providing authority and an easy exit from the literal corner he was backed into.

"William," John repeated, this time more firmly. "Look at the mess you've made. See," John gestured to William's person, "and on the floor and the walls, too." William looked down and then raised his hands to examine them. His eyes were unfocused as he looked from left to right: the blood on the wall, the toppled gurney, the concerned doctors and nurse in the room. He looked a little surprised, like he was noticing the state of the room for the first time. 

William watched John with large glazed eyes as the doctor grabbed an over-turned stool and righted it. He pulled a hospital gown and a sheet from the toppled gurney. "Come here before you make a bigger mess," he commanded, tossing the sheet over the low stool allowing it to billow out over the floor. He now had the omega's undivided attention. William stepped slowly away from the corner and approached John who, moving slowly but without hesitation, gently grasped him by the upper arms and guided him to sit down on the stool. The sight of the injured and vulnerable omega, combined with the disorder of the scene, had sparked a sense of urgency and initiative in John, and he knew from this close that his scent, amplified by how he was feeling, was probably very strong to William.

The fight had left him and William sat, his breathing still fast. He continued to focus on John, his head and eye lids drooping. "Kit," John requested, and a small flurry of motion spread over the room. Ms. Leeward handed John latex gloves, which he donned, then she handed him a pen light. One of the orderlies came in and helped Dr. Jones right the gurney and cover it with a fresh sheet. John set about examining William, noting that his pupils were equal and reactive and when directed to grasp John's fingers in his hands, he provided an even and strong grip. John palpated the bones around William's jaw and base of his skull, noting no appearance of heightened pain, discomfort, or swelling. The bond bite was indeed infected- the alpha that made it obviously hadn't licked it clean properly. That thought, together with the realization that it was probably non-consensual, stirred a bit of anger deep inside John. He pushed it aside knowing anger would only distress his delicate patient. Around the blood and bruises, William was indeed very pale and sickly in appearance but with a dark flush high on his cheeks. John still couldn't see the extent of the gash hidden in his hair, but now that the omega was sitting still, it didn't appear to be bleeding as heavily as he had initially though. 

William allowed Ms. Leeward to slip the blood pressure cuff up his right arm but began to panic when he felt it inflate. "None of that," John said sternly. He grasped William under the arms and lifted him up onto the gurney and then grabbed the gown to cover him with. With a needle and cannula at the ready, John held William's elbow and swabbed at the crook of his arm with an alcohol wipe. William's brief interlude of docility was apparently running out. "Let me go, I have to get away," he gasped as he tried to pull his arm away from John. John assessed the situation quickly. William's behavior was deteriorating and he might not be able to keep him calm. He needed to get the IV started and get a look at the head wound. 

John concluded in the absence of concussion symptoms, a light dose of sedative to facilitate getting the IV in and closing the head wound would be advisable. "10 mg midazolam, intramuscular," he requested. It might take more, but he preferred to be cautious. John had a gentle grasp on both of William's wrists as the young omega tried to pull away, pressing harder against the raised back of the gurney. Dr. Jones quickly produced a loaded syringe which he pushed into William's right bicep after sterilizing the site with an alcohol swab. With his eyes still locked on John's, William continued to struggle in fits and starts, but soon quieted enough that John released his wrists and lied him down gently on the gurney that was now adjusted flat. He carefully arranged William's head on a pillow and pushed the beautiful dark curls away from William's eyes and forehead. Ms. Leeward established an IV line in his right median cubital vein with no additional fuss. William's beautiful green-blue-brown eyes moved sluggishly from side to side before locking again onto John's. His eyelids were drooping and John watched closely for William to succumb to the drug. As the omega's gaze finally broke from John's face and his eyelids drifted shut, he mumbled, only loud enough for John. "Please. Don't tell him I'm here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, World! I humbly submit for your enjoyment my very first fanfic. I have been lurking on AO3 and Tumblr for about 2 years now, delighting in the vastness of fandom (mostly Sherlock) and I have finally decided to contribute. [Come visit me on Tumblr!!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish) Note, this is a finished story, I intend to post new chapters at least once per week.
> 
> A note about place: this story has been written in American English with a lot of Americanisms, mostly because I am too lazy to perform the research necessary to make it more British. I tried to leave the details of location vague enough so you can imagine our favorite pair in the setting of your choice.


	2. A Small Exchange of Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why wait a whole week when I can share the next chapter now? I just can't resist!

It had been several hours and John was still at the hospital. He didn't know why he stuck around, perhaps it was just the instinctual alpha reaction to stay close to an abandoned and hurt omega who was otherwise lost and alone. John had conducted the remainder of the examination once William had slipped fully into sedation while Dr. Jones was called away to handle multiple incoming car accident patients. John irrigated and closed the gash on his head with 3 stitches, it wasn't as bad as it initially looked, and together with the brief exam John had accomplished while William was awake suggested there was no evidence of concussion or neurological damage. Together with Ms. Leeward, they got William out of the dirty underpants and cleaned up the cuts, including what was indeed a poorly done bond bite. They drew blood samples and John checked over the smaller naked body thoroughly for any repeat puncture wounds or evidence of drug abuse, but he found none. Other than being a bit on the skinny side, probably due to dehydration, the omega seemed otherwise healthy, aside from his behavior, of course. John had handed off William's care to Dr. Hildegard, the on-call specialist omegacologist, when she arrived. But still, he found himself reluctant to leave. 

John was currently staring speechless across the small round table in the employee break room at Dr. Hildegard. She spoke with an eastern European accent in calm, confident tones. What she had just told him was shocking- and made him feel like throwing up. William was exhibiting clear signs of sexual assault, forced bonding (which was incomplete due to being done out-of-heat), and he was suffering from brokebond sickness. "The good news, John, is that he wasn't fully bonded to his abuser so the brokebond symptoms should be relatively minor and won't carry permanent psychological damage. Tox screen was clean, though the chemistries were consistent with the heightened fear response associated with the brokebond sickness. We've got him in a safe place now. I think he has a strong spirit and he has every chance of making it through this. I'm on my way to file a report with the police, I'm sure they'll send a detective over but I'll make sure to have someone there for the questioning."

John swallowed down his dry throat. "What's his name? Has he told you anything?"

"William Wilkinson, but he hasn't told us anything about the assailant or what happened. According to the intake notes, he just walked into the ER this morning and said he was sick with fever and needed help." Dr. Hildegard paused and gave John a small smile. "Thanks John, they told me that you calmed him down after he lost it. That can be tough to do in these cases because the brokebond sickness causes such extreme fear and paranoia." She paused again, and gave John a chance to respond, but he didn't. "Would you like to go in and see him? He was awake a few minutes ago." 

John took a deep breath, and gave a tiny smile, "Yeah, I would. Thanks." They rose from the table together and Dr. Hildegard lead them to William's room, which was just down the hall in the recent admittals ward.

Dr. Hildegard gave John a gentle pat on the elbow and left to check on her other patients. John looked in through the glass next to the door. The room was empty of nurses and the lights were dimmed. The bed was piled with a tall stack of blankets and pillows. John opened the door and stepped inside quietly. There was no need to announce his presence. If William was sleeping, he didn't want to wake him. John moved around to the chair at the far side of the bed and sat down. He waited patiently. An IV saline bag with antibiotics was hanging on the hook above the head of the bed. The clear IV tubing ran down and disappeared into the blankets. Several gray wires and tubes connected to the computerized monitoring station and disappeared into the blanket pile as well. The screen readout showed a pulse of 78 beats per minute, 16 breaths per minute, pulse ox 96%, blood pressure 130/100, and a slightly elevated temperature (99.7 °F).

John heard a sniffle and a deep breath emanate from the nest. Then another breath, making it obvious that William was awake and taking in the older alpha's scent. A small amount of movement and the blankets receded just a few inches, allowing a pair of stunningly intelligent blue-green eyes to peak out at John. John gave him a reserved smile but otherwise kept a distance, avoided eye contact, and submitted himself to the piercing gaze. He let William look his fill, studying the doctor. Finally, after an extended silence, William spoke in a soft, pleasant, baritone voice. "Can I have your phone?"

The question was unexpected, but John was relieved that William was interacting with him at all. He reached into his pocket, took out his smartphone, leaned forward, and placed it on the bed next to the pair of eyes. He sat back in the chair. Pale, slender fingers, the index finger sporting a pulse oximeter, reached out from under the covers and pulled the phone inside. William's eyes disappeared as well, and he shuffled slightly, accompanied with a quiet whimper. John sat still, squeezing his eyes shut and balling his fists, willing away the anger, an emotion which came so naturally to him.

The phone had a passcode, of course, and John had a few reservations about the omega seeing the not-so-savory pornsites he had left open in several tabs on his internet browser, but he decided making a gesture of trust was the least he could do to help this poor, hurting creature. "Would you like my passcode?"

There was no answer and John waited patiently. In less than a minute, a reply came, muffled by the pile of bedding, "1-2-5-4".

John was momentarily speechless. It was similar to the feeling you get when you witness a magician cut someone in half with a saw and then put them back together again. Obviously, there is a trick to it- there is no such thing as magic. "How?"

Following a brief pause, William explained. "You are obviously very dedicated to your work, having come back on shift after an already long night and you are still here. It shows you value thoroughness and probably efficiency, too. So probably something quick and easy, but not as stupid as '1-1-1-1' or something similar. An unbonded alpha doctor without a ring together with your work dedication also suggests you are unattached, so the most common loved-ones' birthdays are unlikely. That's good, those can be tricky to guess without more information. You emanate a certain... sadness... I doubt you believe in magic and miracles, or even superstition, so it also seems unlikely that you would have some personal 'lucky number' system to make use of. Mathematical? As I said, you value speed and efficiency, something like 2-3-5-7 or 4-9-16 would take just that tiny bit of extra time and concentration. That leaves pattern-based passwords, probably easy to do while holding the phone in just your dominant hand. I tried 4 different patterns before I found the right one."

The room fell silent. John was taken aback. William was spot on about so much of what he said- should he be angry? Embarrassed? He wasn't. He was in awe. Obviously this was a very intelligent young man with a fair amount of gall and an uncanny perceptive ability regarding human nature. Why had he been so ill treated? The silence stretched on and John noticed that the heart monitor had climbed higher towards 90 bpm. 

"Remarkable" John finally replied. "Amazing," he added. William's face appeared once again from under the covers, this time also revealing a few dark curls, an attractive upturned nose, and a pair of beautiful bowed lips.

He studied John's face, looking surprised when he realized John was pleasantly impressed by his cleverness. "That's not what people usually say." He replied.

"What do they usually say?"

William frowned but didn't answer, and instead disappeared once again into his nest. "May I keep your phone for a little longer?" 

"Yes, of course," John replied. He would have liked to prompt William for information, but he felt like the omega had opened up to him, just a little, and he didn't want to sabotage whatever bit of trust might be growing between them. He figured once the police arrived, they would ask him enough painful questions that John didn't need to add to that either. The silence stretched on. William's voice came out from the blanket pile, "John?" 

John knew he never introduced himself. It was part of the power-play to secure cooperation that worked well with some people in some situations. He was obviously a doctor from the coat he wore and how the other staff interacted with him, the fact that he sported a friendly, ordinary name like 'John Watson' could detract from that authority. People had their biases, it was best to keep some at an information disadvantage. 

It occurred to John in that moment that he was the one at an information disadvantage.

"Yes, William?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

John bit his lip. The honest answer was 'it depends', if William was about to provide information that would help put to justice whatever bastard had done this to such a beautiful, intelligent, vulnerable young man...

"I can hear you thinking. It's nothing like that."

John stopped the thoughts from barreling through his mind and sighed.

"Alright, then yes, I can keep a secret."

"My name is Sherlock."

A smile ghosted John's lips and he leaned forward so that Sherlock would hear him when he spoke softly. "Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

John was feeling a sense of relief. The air in the room was suddenly clearer and he leaned back in his chair. The two sat in comfortable silence for quite some time. John thinking quietly and Sherlock presumably occupied with John's phone.

About to rise, he let Sherlock know, "I'm going to head home for a rest before my shift starts tonight at 7. I would like you to rest and let the nurses and Dr. Hildegard help you, OK?"

John was answered by silence and an increased respiration rate.

"You're going to be alright. Dr. Hildegard is a very good doctor and she is a friend of mine. I know she'll do what's best for you and keep you safe here. How about you keep my phone and I'll come back to see you before I start work tonight?"

After a short delay, Sherlock responded with a quiet, lost voice. "OK."

John was so tired. He got up and went to the door, turning back to see Sherlock was peaking out and watching him. With a soft smile, he said goodbye and promised to come back to see him soon. He stopped by Dr. Hildegard's office to check in with her on his way out. The plan for the day was to keep Sherlock quiet and avoid undue stress from the police, who would be by in the afternoon. They would work to wean him from IV medications to pills. Satisfied that Dr. Hildegard had things well under control, John headed home. When he finally got to bed, he fell asleep quickly and his thoughts were filled with the amazing young omega, stirring an alpha instinct deep inside himself that he hadn't felt in a long time.


	3. The Escape

John got back to the hospital around 6 PM and went straight to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was sitting up in bed and the majority of the blankets had been kicked down to the foot. He clutched the remaining blanket to his bare chest and was glaring daggers at the young male nurse in his room. The gauze bandage that John taped securely over the site of the bond bite while Sherlock was sedated was visible on the side of his elegant neck. Sherlock's overall color was much improved, despite a developing bruise over his right cheek bone. His riot of thick dark curls were matted with a bit of dried blood, which had flaked off to soil the white pillow cover. His uneaten dinner of soup, toast, and canned fruit sat on an over-bed table that had been moved aside. John's smartphone was plugged into a charger on the bedside table.

John entered without knocking, drawing the attention of both the room's occupants. Sherlock softened his expression, nearly smiling, when he saw John, but quickly steeled his features and returned his glare to the nurse. The nurse was holding a tiny cup and he was obviously a bit exasperated as he addressed John, "Good evening, Dr. Watson. We were hoping William would eat his dinner and take his meds by mouth this evening, but he hasn't been very cooperative today." 

"Of course I haven't been, you idiot, I was asleep for most of it," Sherlock bit back. He looked very small and weak in bed, but he was trying to put up a fighting appearance. John understood the nurse's frustration, he really did. Sherlock didn't need the type of intensive care that the hospital provided so they were just trying to prepare him for discharge. John wondered if there had been any discussion regarding where Sherlock would go. Did he have any family? Would they send him to an omega rehabilitation facility? Were the police any help at all?

"Give me a minute," John requested from the nurse. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't fault him for being polite to the young man. The nurse headed for the door, handing John the small cup he was holding which contained four pills. He gave John the _he's all yours_ look. Once they were alone, John sat down in the visitor chair. Sherlock had crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back against the raised head. He watched John closely.

John slipped into his authoritative-doctor persona and leaned forward, making eye contact with the stropping patient. Once again, he planned to address Sherlock's behaviors and anxieties head-on by showing that he was in control of the situation, not Sherlock.

"I want you to eat at least half your dinner and then take these meds" he stated sternly.

"I'm not hungry and you know one of those pills is a sedative. Probably diazepam." He snapped back. John admired Sherlock's tenacity, which was especially more impressive given the brokebond. Sherlock met John's eyes and tried to stare him down but demurred quickly. He looked away and scowled. "I don't like the way it makes me feel," he mumbled. John held his ground. After a moment or two, a bit more confidence melted from Sherlock's expression, "Please don't make me take the pills." 

John rose from the chair and circled the bed to the computer terminal in the room and logged into the hospital chart system. He pulled up _William Wilkinson, age 27_ and scanned through Dr. Hildegard's orders from the day. Indeed, he had been prescribed 10 mg of diazepam, along with a broad spectrum antibiotic, a multi-vitamin, and acetaminophen. "Love, how about this," he said, logging out of the computer, "I'm going to have a word with Dr. Hildegard. I'll be right back. If you eat some of your dinner, we can go for a walk around the hospital after, OK?" Sherlock immediately caught on to the _we_. He sat up and looked interested, but John didn't give him a chance to respond before he slipped out from the room.

Dr. Hildegard was in with another patient and John waited in the hallway for her to come out. She looked tired after a long day and was probably getting ready to head home soon. "Ah, John, so glad to see you. Have you seen William yet?" she asked conversationally as they stepped to the side of the hallway.

"Yes, I just stopped in. His nurse tells me he had a rough day?"

"Well, to be expected really," she sighed. "John, how much do you know about brokebond sickness?" John shrugged- not much really, it wasn't something they dealt with in the Army and he had yet to see it in his short time here at the hospital. It was a specialized condition that required oversight from an omegacologist. "So, basically," she continued, "when a bonded alpha and omega get separated, they each experience a roller coaster of symptoms resulting from the extreme hormonal imbalance. For omegas, this usually includes nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, headache, fever, body aches, fatigue, general malaise. The psychological symptoms can include intense feelings of fear, abandonment, anger, sadness, and paranoia. Brokebond sickness is rarely fatal, especially if the omega is given proper supportive care. The symptoms for alphas are usually a bit more dangerous, actually, as they can become prone to violence, impulsiveness, and a greatly diminished sense of self-preservation."

John's mind flashed briefly to the alpha. What happened to him? Was he still alive? Was he still dangerous?

"He hasn't told us anything more, and he completely clammed up when the police were here. What I think happened," she paused for John to give her the nod to continue, "is that he probably escaped a very abusive alpha. He has probably given us a false name and is refusing to give us any information or contact his family because he is afraid of being found out. He was lucky to get out before going into a full heat and being completely bonded. That would make his escape and subsequent sickness much more difficult if not impossible to overcome."

"John," Dr. Hildegard sighed, "it is likely that the alpha is going to come looking for him. We need to move him to a safer place ASAP. Also, his symptoms are going to increase in severity within the next few days. I put a call in with a home for battered omegas, but they are reluctant to take him while he is still in the throws of brokebond sickness, since it would cause significant stress and confusion to their other residents, especially the children."

John felt his chest tighten. Was there really nowhere for Sherlock to go? He suddenly wanted to get back to him. He thanked Dr. Hildegard and was about to turn and go when he remembered the primary reason why he wanted to talk to Dr. Hildegard in the first place. "Is it OK if we take the diazepam off his prescription list?" Dr. Hildegard twisted her lips thoughtfully. "If you're staying with him, sure, but as I mentioned, his behavior is likely to become more difficult to predict and manage as the sickness progresses. Are you scheduled in the ER tonight?"

"I was able to get tonight off, and I'm not scheduled for another shift until next week anyway. So yah, I'll stay with him." Dr. Hildegard's expression changed from haggard and hopeless to relieved. "Well, John, that's certainly a relief. Thanks. Yes, please take the diazepam off his chart. If you can't get him to take the antibiotic orally, we'll just do another IV dose. Dr. Moran is on tonight, I'll touch base with him on my way out." She gave him a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder.

John hurried back to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was sitting up in bed holding the empty fruit bowl. John was relieved to see that he ate, even if it was just a little. He moved over to the cabinet by the door and pulled out a hospital-issue t-shirt, shorts, and a pair of slippers. "Fancy a short walk with me?" he asked and Sherlock's face lit up. John approached Sherlock, disconnected the IV, flushed the cannula with saline, and capped the port. Sherlock was wearing nothing but the pair of hospital-issue underpants that replaced the dirty pair that he came in with. He was able to throw the t-shirt over his head and get his arms through on his own, but John had to help him with the shorts. Sherlock steadied himself with his hands on John's broad shoulders as John crouched down to hold the shorts open for him. When the warm, soft skin of Sherlock's arm brushed John's freshly shaved cheek, John was surprised at how nice it felt. He held Sherlock's hand as the omega carefully stepped into the hospital slippers. John grabbed his phone off the table, pocketed it, and together they moved at a slow and comfortable pace towards the door. 

The walk was nice. John had to admit that it felt a tiny bit like he was showing off this gorgeous omega to anyone who passed by. That _he_ was the one holding Sherlock's hand and protecting and caring for him caused a tiny primordial part of him to preen. For his part, Sherlock seemed as if he was starting to relax just a little, glancing up at John every now and then as they shuffled along the edge of the corridor. It was coming up on 7 PM and the shift change was happening soon. 

They passed the stairwell at the end of the corridor. Up ahead, John could hear Dr. Moran's boisterous banter with several staff members. Dr. Moran always worked nights, so John had crossed paths with him regularly when patients were transferred from the ER to the short-term ward. Moran was surprisingly up-beat and jovial for a hospital doctor and was often just a little too flirty with the female nurses. John couldn't help but feel annoyed- Moran was constantly toeing the line between friendly and improper and it needled John that so many intelligent young nurses who were working hard to build their careers had to grin, nod, and generally put up with this guy. A burst of Dr. Moran's inappropriately loud and hearty laughter brought John back from his thoughts. 

Sherlock froze. 

John turned back to his walking companion and was shocked by what he saw. Sherlock stood frozen in place, his stance wide with both feet planted on the floor. His left hand was clutching John's, his right grasped the metal hand rail that ran the length of the corridor. Wetness spread down the front of Sherlock's hospital shorts, then streamed down his bare legs and dripped onto the floor. Sherlock's tiny frame was trembling and his face was twisted with a look of shear terror. John quickly stepped into Sherlock's space, bent down to his level, and firmly held Sherlock's bicep in his free hand. 

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" It was hard to believe that this was simply one of the brokebond symptoms as Sherlock had transitioned from 'good' to 'not good' so quickly. The horrified omega shifted his eyes and made eye contact with John as a tear streamed down his cheek. "He's here to take me back..." he whispered.

Understanding the danger, John acted entirely on impulse. He grabbed Sherlock under the armpits and lifted him up, clutching him protectively towards his chest. He lunged a few steps to the stairwell, dodging through the doors. He returned Sherlock to his feet, grabbed his hand, and rushed down the stairs. They went down 4 flights of stairs to the lower level of the parking garage, and paused. John once again crouched down so that he was at Sherlock's eye level.

"The doctor that you heard laughing. Did you recognize him?" John asked.

Sherlock responded with a frantic nod. 

"Is he the one who hurt you, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock shook his head to answer no.

"Does he know who hurt you?" 

Sherlock nodded as his eyes began to well with tears again. 

John quickly wrapped Sherlock in his arms. "Shh...shh... It's OK, I've got you," he soothed as he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket. He found 'Valerie Hildegard' in his contacts and typed out a quick text message, _moran danger took william keep secret_ , and hit send. He grabbed Sherlock by the hand and dashed to his black Model S Tesla parked in the 'electric car only' space right next to the stairs. In a few seconds he had Sherlock in the passenger seat and they were headed out of the garage and back to John's apartment on Baker Street.


	4. Baker Street

John walked Sherlock slowly up the 17 steps to his apartment on Baker Street. Halfway up, he had an internal debate over whether to carry Sherlock the rest of the way, but he decided that Sherlock was managing alright. As soon as they were through the door, John locked and bolted it behind them. He took Sherlock straight to the bathroom and sat him down on the closed toilet lid. Sherlock blinked in the white bathroom light and looked around the room with bright, aware eyes. John scrubbed and rinsed his hands thoroughly in the bathroom sink. After drying them, he went just to the doorway where he could stay visible to Sherlock while reaching around the corner into the linen closet to grab his med kit. 

He placed it on the sink and opened it up. Sherlock glanced from the contents of the kit towards John, his eyes widening slightly. "Don't be worried, Love, I'm just going to take the IV cannula out so we can get you into the bath. I bet you'd like to get your hair cleaned up, huh?" John was speaking quietly and casually, purposely avoiding asking any questions. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. He sat very still and watched John closely, apparently deeply engrossed in studying the hairs on top of John's head as the doctor looked down at his work. Sherlock took in John's scent and that of his apartment discreetly. Of course an alpha's scent was strongest from sexual activity and the sharpness of John's unbonded alpha smell in the bathroom was a giveaway that he often wanked in there. Sherlock found it intriguing.

John carefully peeled the layers of tape off from the IV site on the inside of Sherlock's pale forearm. He covered the puncture with gauze, giving it a squeeze when he slid the needle out. After a few seconds of holding pressure onto the site, John taped the gauze in place, adding a covering of waterproof tape. The bandage over the bite looked pretty good, so he decided to leave it in place for Sherlock's bath. He used the scissors to cut the hospital patient identification bracelet off Sherlock's wrist, then set it on the side of the sink. He ran the bath water and once it was comfortably hot, he put the drain plug in to let the bath fill. 

"Let's get you out of these cloths and into the bath," he said as he took Sherlock by the hands and stood him up. Sherlock had long since lost the hospital slippers and his bare feet were dirty. John pulled the t-shirt over Sherlock's head and then pulled the urine-damp shorts and underpants down over the slender hips. With a nervous inhale, Sherlock immediately covered his privates with his hands. Instead of commenting (seriously, Sherlock didn't have anything that John hadn't already seen a hundred times), John helped Sherlock climb into the tub and sit down in the hot water. He turned off the tap and grabbed two wash cloths, one he dropped in Sherlock's lap and the other he soaked in the bath water. He put the bar of soap on the side of the tub within Sherlock's reach. "You wash everything accept your hair, I'll help you with that. I don't want the stitches getting wet."

As Sherlock set about soaping up his chest and arms, John put the dirty hospital cloths in the bin under the sink and sat down on the toilet lid. He took out his phone and texted Dr. Hildegard: _call me asap._ His phone rang about 2 minutes later. 

"John, what happened? Are you both alright?" she asked the moment he answered. 

"Yah, we're fine, back at my apartment. William recognized Dr. Moran by his voice, but Moran didn't see him. Apparently he has some connection to his past and it isn't good. Did you cover up his patient records?" 

"Yes, of course," Dr. Hildegard responded, "I changed his age to late thirties and made it look like he was discharged. I filed it under obstetrics so I doubt anyone looking for him would think to search there. The nighttime head nurse was coming on and I made sure she knew that William was discharged and that as a battered omega it was important to keep all information about him confidential, and not even to discuss it with other nurses or doctors except on a strict need-to-know basis. You know the nurses, they generally minimize conversation with Dr. Moran anyway, so I doubt there would be much danger of dropping any casual information."

 _Bless this woman_ , John thought. "Yes, thank you so much, Valerie, I'm going to keep William here with me for now."

"You're welcome, John. He needs to finish the antibiotic course, we had him on amoxicillin, do you need me to call in a prescription?"

"Ah, no, thanks, actually I have some here in my kit."

"Call me anytime if you need something. Hopefully a few days rest and he'll talk more. If I hear from the police again, I'll let you know."

"Thank you."

He hung up the phone and put it on the sink. Sherlock must have finished washing and he had pulled his knees up and hugged them to his chest. He was leaning forward and sideways in the tub looking exhausted.

"Let's wash your hair." He crouched down next to the tub as Sherlock perked up, carefully clutching the washcloth to his lap in order to keep John from seeing his bits. John grabbed the other washcloth and very carefully and methodically sponged at the hair on each side of the line of stitches on Sherlock's scalp without getting water onto the recently closed wound. He added a tiny bit of shampoo and sponged that away until the water ran clear. He took one last swipe over Sherlock's shoulders and upper arms to rinse away the final traces of soap and then he pulled the plug from the tub drain. He lifted Sherlock up onto his feet and out of the tub. By this point Sherlock's eyes were drifting closed, he dropped his 'modesty cloth' and had gone mostly limp. 

"John, I'm so tired," he mumbled. 

"I know, Love, hang on another minute, we're getting you to bed." John grabbed the bath towel from the rack and wrapped it around Sherlock's small figure, patting his hair and body dry. Holding Sherlock upright with one arm, he grabbed the tube of triple antibiotic ointment from the med kit and added some over the stitches. He carefully peeled the damp bandage away from the bite wound on Sherlock's neck. It would need to be recovered, but John's arm was getting tired. Still wrapped in the towel, he lifted Sherlock up bridal style and carried him into his bedroom. He managed to pull the covers back and deposit Sherlock against the pillows where he sat blinking, struggling to keep his eyes open. John returned to the bathroom for a large gauze square and some med tape, which he used to cover the bite wound. John went over to his dresser and pulled out a t-shirt, underpants, and a pair of gym shorts, all of which were too big but would have to do. It was a challenge getting the wet towel off of Sherlock and then getting him dressed in the clean dry clothes. By the time he settled the freshly bathed dozing omega under his bed covers, John had broken a sweat. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock sleep for quite some time. It was oddly satisfying to have the omega secured in his bed: clean, warm, dry, comfortable, and safe. He knew that the brokebond sickness would likely get worse, and given Sherlock's already frail condition, getting him to eat soon and take the antibiotics would be important. He went around the room and checked to make sure all the windows were locked and the shades were down. He left the closet light on with the door open an inch, just so there would be a bit of light in the room in case Sherlock woke. On impulse, he swept the damp curls back from Sherlock's forehead and placed a gentle kiss there. The smell of the hospital had faded and now he clearly detected Sherlock's distinct scent: earthy mixed with tea leaves and something slightly sweet- like fresh baked sugar cookies. He lingered just a moment to breathe it in, knowing that by morning the delicious omega scent would be strong in his room. 

John was used to working nights, so even though he hadn't slept well that day, he was wide awake. He went out to the living room to make a few phone calls, but left the bedroom door open so he could keep an ear on Sherlock.


	5. Sherlock Shares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: In this chapter we learn a bit about Sherlock's past trauma, which includes sexual assault (described in non-specific terms).

There were angry dogs inside Sherlock's mind palace. At least 5 or 6 of them: large dark brown dogs, growling and snarling with bared teeth and dirty, wet fur. Sherlock ran as fast as he could down the main hall, the dogs close behind him. Finally, he dodged into a room and slammed the door behind him. The dogs barreled into the other side of the door, jumping up and pounding on it, their vicious snarling uninterrupted. Sherlock used all his strength to hold the door closed, but there was no lock, and to make matters worse, he couldn't get the door catch in place so it jerked open an inch or so with each shove from the dogs and he had to force it closed again and again.

Over the cacophony of the dogs, he could hear their master's powerful voice. "Time to take your pills, Sherlock, Seb brought something the new boy made- this time it'll be real fun!". The taunts were accompanied with the loud sniggering laughter of the aforementioned Seb, "Yah, real fun! Make sure he takes them all!".

Sherlock felt the door handle wiggle in his hand and he started to scream and thrash. Maybe this was a dream and if he screamed hard enough, he could wake himself up before the awful man got through the door and the most horrible part happened. Maybe he could get out in time... maybe he could get away this time. He yelled with all of his might, concentrating on the feel of his mouth, getting it open as wide as he could, filling his lungs with air, and letting his vocal chords vibrate. 

Gradually the sound of the dogs and the bright light of his mind palace gave way to a calm, soothing voice and a dimly lit room. "Shhh... shhh.... just a dream. You're safe here. Shh... I'm going to keep you safe. Shhhh...". He was in a bed, being held half upright, cradled in strong arms and being gently rocked. A soft golden light was glowing from a lamp on a bedside table. "Shh... just a dream." As the final dregs of the dream faded and his surroundings came into focus, he remembered John. 

He sucked in a gasping breath down his dry throat. Was he just screaming? He pulled his arms up and wrapped them around John's neck, squeezing tightly and inhaling his soothing scent. "That's it... you're safe here with me. Shh..." a few minutes passed and Sherlock's pounding heartbeat began to slow. The adrenaline was fading and he noticed the sweat along his hairline. "Do you want to talk about it?" John asked as he stroked gentle circles on Sherlock's back. Moments ticked by. The circles stopped and were replaced with a firm pressure when Sherlock began to speak.

"He would make me take pills. Sometimes I wouldn't remember." Sherlock paused. "But... usually it was like I was watching. That doctor, the one at the hospital. I know him."

He stopped there, he didn't want to talk any more about Sebastian Moran. But, finally saying it out loud was like a tremendous weight lifting from his shoulders because he was telling John. The feeling twisted into a wave of sadness and loss for the life he had before he was taken. Sherlock let out a sob, followed by another. John held him close and rocked him as he cried it all out. The relief of waking up and realizing that he got away- he had a chance to start over- it was overwhelming. It finally flooded through him and he just couldn't fight it anymore. He clutched tightly to John and cried. 

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John whispered into his hair. They sat like that for a long time, just when Sherlock thought the sobs were done, he'd well up and start over again. John had pulled a tissue from the box next to the bed several times, giving it to Sherlock to blow copious amounts of snot into it in a futile attempt to clear his sinuses. John took the used tissues back and used fresh tissues to dab away the tears on Sherlock's face. Finally, Sherlock felt he was done crying. He felt lighter somehow, but worn out and he had to breathe through his mouth, his nose was entirely blocked shut. His head was pounding and he wanted to go back to sleep, but not yet. He was ready, he wanted to tell John. He continued, calmly.

"He tried to bond with me. He knew I would come into heat soon and that's why I had to escape when I did. The night after he bit me, instead of swallowing the pill, I hid it beneath my tongue. He was already drunk enough and not very smart to begin with, he didn't notice when I spit it into his glass of liquor. It dissolved fast in the alcohol and he swallowed it down. I pretended that I was getting drowsy but when he stumbled over a chair and realized what I had done, he was furious. He grabbed my hair and shoved my head against the coffee table." Sherlock paused, then continued. "When he lost his balance and let go, I got away."

John was silent, only answering with a renewed hug. 

"I hid in an abandoned building for as long as I could, but it was only one night. I think. I was so cold and I couldn't stop throwing up. Everything hurt. My head wouldn't stop pounding and the bite started to burn. I actually don't remember going to the hospital."

John held Sherlock tightly for a moment. "Sherlock, listen to me," he said as he moved his hands to Sherlock's biceps and held him away from his chest so he could make eye contact. "Thank God you got away. Thank you for coming to the hospital when you did. And thank you for trusting me. I'm going to take care of you and keep you safe now. But I need to know, Sherlock, who was this alpha who abused you and tried to force a bond on you?"

Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes. In the dim light, the blue was so dark that they looked black. The calm of the room and his closeness to John were giving him a sense of security and confidence. It felt like his mind was powering-down, shifting down through the lower gears, moving slower and slower, a little piece of him was giving up, relinquishing control. Sherlock felt his lips whispering, and he was just too tired to stop them. 

"Charles Magnussen."


	6. It Comes in Waves

Sherlock opened his eyes to the mid-morning sun creeping in around the shades drawn over the bedroom windows. He felt stiff all over, but at least the headache wasn't as sharp. His mouth was dry and sticky and he desperately had to urinate. In the peace of the night before, after he had gone to the toilet and washed his face, he climbed under the clean, dry sheets that John had just made the bed with. John had laid down on top of the covers beside him. His presence was a soothing balm after Sherlock had cried out so much of his past. Together, they must have slept. 

Sherlock was alone now but he could hear noises from somewhere else in the apartment and the alpha's background scent, a pleasant mix of fresh cut cedar and fall leaves, was strong in the room. He moved to the edge of the bed and slid onto his feet. He staggered to the bathroom where he emptied his bladder, washed his face, and rinsed his mouth. He was tempted to peel the bandage off his neck, but he was eager to find John, so he left it alone and stepped from the bathroom, switching the light off behind him.

Sherlock moved silently down the short hallway, which terminated in the sitting room with an open kitchen to the left. The freshly painted white walls were mostly empty except for a few framed posters of various classic films and jazz concerts. Two tall windows with white linen curtains let in light and the sounds of the occasional car passing by on the street below. The window on the right was open just an inch at the bottom, letting in a small amount of cold, spring air. There was a large TV and a shelf of DVDs against the far wall. The beige furniture was arranged open to the rest of the room: a sofa, a coffee table, 2 end tables with navy-shaded matching lamps, and an oversized easy chair (the kind meant for 2 people) with a hassock. The modern design of the room together with the sparsity of personal effects suggested John was renting the apartment furnished and even though he'd been there for a while, he hadn't really settled in.

John was sitting in the kitchen at the table reading the newspaper. We was dressed in a long-sleeved button-down blue and green flannel shirt and a pair of khaki-colored slacks. He had an empty plate and a half cup of tea on the table in front of him. When he noticed Sherlock, he gave him a warm smile. He projected a general air of contentment and calmness and Sherlock felt a pinch in his chest. He wished he could wake up like this again and again. But if John knew what Sherlock was really like, the choices he'd made, he would probably send him away. John Watson was no fool: to be his age and still unbonded he must have fairly high standards. He may be drawn to the mysterious broken omega, but he would figure it out soon enough.

"Good morning, Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked. 

Sherlock shrugged, "better." 

John rose from the table and pulled out a chair. "Sit," he said before heading to the counter, probably to make some toast and fresh tea.

Sherlock sat and looked around the kitchen. It was very neat and clean. A draining board with a few dishes sat next to the sink and there were some kitchen-themed wall hangings (the obligatory farmyard rooster art, of course). John returned, placing buttered toast, a plate of scrambled eggs, and a cup of steaming tea down in front of Sherlock. He returned to his chair and resumed reading the newspaper, the morning sunlight glinting off his blond-auburn-gray hair and highlighting the weary lines of his face. He looked warm and soft and Sherlock wondered what it would feel like to be a bit closer.

Sherlock shifted his focus from John to the food in front of him. He just wasn't hungry and the vague pull of queasiness at his stomach didn't help. He separated a piece of toast in half, nibbled a tiny bit, and replaced the toast on the plate. He squished at the egg with his fork and tasted a bit that clung to the tine. The food was unappealing. It made his mouth water and reminded him of the persistent nausea deep in his stomach. He opted instead for sipping the hot tea.

John noticed Sherlock's feeble attempts to appear as though he were eating. He sat patiently, pretending to read the newspaper but paying careful attention to Sherlock. When it was obvious that he didn't intend to eat, John spoke up. "Can I make you something else that you would rather have for breakfast?" he asked. 

"I'm just not hungry," Sherlock replied apologetically. 

John folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He had tried being casual but now it was time to address this issue full on. However, he was careful not to come across too aggressively. He knew Sherlock would be feeling the symptoms of the brokebond sickness even more strongly now and the last thing he wanted to do was make matters worse. He leaned his elbows on the table and made eye contact with Sherlock, but kept his body turned to the side to avoid being intimidating. "Sweetheart, I'd like you to eat breakfast. It's important for your recovery."

Sherlock felt doubly awful now, because on top of feeling crummy, John just used an endearment for him and the alpha was clearly displeased. "I'm just not hungry," Sherlock mumbled as he dropped his gaze.

Another warm smile from John and he got up and returned to the counter. Sherlock thought that perhaps the conversation was over for now. John moved between the sink, the refrigerator, and the pantry while Sherlock tuned him out and skimmed the headlines of the folded newspaper on John's side of the table. John returned with a dish towel in his hand and placed it on the table before pulling his chair farther out and sitting down. 

"Sherlock, come here." John's voice was authoritative, yet gentle. Sherlock hesitated only briefly before rising from his chair and slowly approaching John. John spread his legs to a V and held out his hand, which Sherlock took, having no idea what John had planned for him. John maneuvered him so that he was standing between his legs, facing John. He pulled a stethoscope from his shirt pocket. "Can I have a listen?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. John put the stethoscope in his ears and slid the resonator up under Sherlock's t-shirt in the front. He listened carefully to all corners before sliding down lower to listen to Sherlock's tummy. He rotated Sherlock a few degrees clockwise with a gentle pressure to his shoulder, then moved to his back and listened again. When he was done, he re-pocketed the stethoscope. "Just my fingers," he said as he reached under the front of Sherlock's shirt again and firmly palpated his abdomen with his left hand and steadied his lower back with his right.

John withdrew his hand and straightened the front of his t-shirt back down. He reached up to Sherlock's forehead and cheeks, feeling them with the back of his hand. Then, he reached down and gently pinched at the skin on the back of Sherlock's lower arms. He moved Sherlock to face him again, then produced a penlight from his pocket. He held Sherlock's chin and flashed the light in both his eyes. Finally, he gently pushed the thick curls aside to see the stitches on Sherlock's scalp. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, but he still had several questions for Sherlock. 

"Nauseous?" John asked.

"a little."

"dizzy, faint?"

"no"

"headache?"

"a little, better than last night".

"When was the last time you pooped?"

Sherlock felt his cheeks blush. John was now casually questioning him about pooping. God, the heat questions would probably be next. Oh, yeah, _heat_ , that might be a problem.

John paused for a moment. "Turn this way," he directed as he rotated Sherlock so that the omega was facing John's right. "Hands on my bicep." Sherlock was starting to feel strange. John's voice was moving farther away. Something wasn't right. He had to go somewhere. Back to bed? _Hands on my bicep_. That meant permission to touch. Sherlock brought his hands up and wrapped them around John's right upper arm. 

A wave of nausea came through Sherlock's stomach and his head spun. John was saying something, low and reassuring, but Sherlock couldn't understand. Was John asking him a question? He hadn't heard it. Should he just nod? He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the next wave of vertigo. 

The fog of the brokebond sickness had rolled so quickly into his mind it caught him off guard. It hung thick and clouded both his concept of time and the trust he had in John. _Escape_ , a tiny voice in his head whispered. _Go back to the one who marked you with his bite. John will send you away anyway once he finds out what you've done._ Sherlock felt the strong muscles in John's arm contract under his hands as the alpha leaned forward, reached around him, and pulled down his pajama bottoms together with his underpants. 

Sherlock gasped. The pale skin and fading bruises on his bottom were now on full display and he froze as his mind struggled to put the pieces together. _John's going to hurt me? John said something just now. What was it? John wants to help me?_ John moved the kitchen towel aside to reveal a full capped syringe, the sight of which sent an instinctual jolt of fear into Sherlock's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself over and over, _I trust John_. In his mind, an image of Magnussen flickered, the horrible man standing over him, light glinting off his round glasses. _No, I want John. John, help..._ His head spun. He had to get away. The cold wetness of alcohol spread over his left bum cheek, immediately followed by the jab of the syringe and the pressure as its contents were delivered to the muscle.

Sherlock felt he was lost at sea in a storm, struggling to get his head above water. "John?"

His pants and pajama bottoms were back up and John was mumbling soothingly to him while rubbing gentle circles over where the needle had pierced his skin. Then, the calming touch moved up to stroke his back as John held the omega to his chest. "We're going to get you through this, Sherlock," John said as he pushed the curls back from Sherlock's forehead so he could see his face clearly. Sherlock didn't realize he was still grasping John's arm until John told him to let go, turned him 180 degrees, and hoisted him up to sit on John's right thigh.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. At least he thought he did.

"That was just a small shot to help stimulate your appetite. We need to get you eating," he said as he grasped Sherlock around the waste and reached forward to slide the entire kitchen table, and Sherlock's uneaten food, closer to them. Sherlock clutched John tightly as he waited for the fog to clear. Was that the brokebond? Why had Sherlock just been thinking of getting away when all he really wanted was to be here with John? Why was John so _nice_? He absolutely abhorred being so irrational and emotional.

Sherlock rested his head against John's shoulder, breathing in his calming scent, _cedar, leaves, rain,_ and feeling himself relax little by little. John was unhurried in his treatment of the omega now, patiently sitting and occasionally rubbing calmly up and down Sherlock's back. It felt nice and Sherlock found he was thankful for the contact. The dizziness had past. He was feeling a bit more clear-headed. Eventually, he felt a tiny bit of hunger in his stomach. It grew quickly. Soon, his interest in cuddling with John waned as the food on the table began to look very appealing. 

With little guidance from John, Sherlock eventually ate all of the food from his plate while still sitting on John's knee. By the time he was finished, his stomach felt very full, and maybe a little crampy. As if he could read his mind, John smiled and gave him one more gentle hug. "Moving around and drinking plenty of water will help. We'll wait a few hours before giving you something more, maybe some crackers or more toast". He scooted his chair back and returned Sherlock to his feet before stepping aside. Sherlock settled back into John's empty chair and watched as the doctor went to the cabinets and then the sink to get him a glass of water and an antibiotic pill.


	7. Missing Persons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags added.

John got a pillow and blanket for Sherlock to lie down on the couch. He had helped Sherlock take the bandage off the bond bite wound and the IV site, both were healing well enough to be left uncovered. Sherlock was comfortable and sleepy and he spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon dozing on the couch. The overwhelming wave of fear, confusion, and sickness that he had experienced during breakfast had thankfully not repeated. John left the TV on with the volume muted and the closed captions showing. They were all inane daytime talk shows and a marathon of _Poirot_ , so Sherlock didn't pay much attention. He kept falling asleep anyway. John watched for a while, used his computer, sent text messages, and made tea. It was restful, domestic, and pleasant.

Sherlock had just returned from the bathroom and sat down again on the couch when there was a knock on the door. Startled, Sherlock felt his stomach drop and the adrenaline instantly pulse through his muscles. He leapt to his feet and bolted towards the bedroom- there was undoubtedly a fire escape out one of the windows, or at least a rope ladder- John wouldn't overlook such a necessary safety measure. He could use it to escape. Yes, _escape_. 

Once again, John moved faster that one might expect with his compact frame and muscular build. He caught Sherlock by the elbow before he made it to the hallway and pulled him into an embrace. "Shh... that's my friend, Greg, I asked him to come over. He's not going to hurt you." 

Sherlock froze and processed the information. Friend. First name Greg. Casual knock on the front door. He hated being so unreasonably afraid of everything. If it was Magnussen or one of his goons, of course they wouldn't announce their arrival by knocking on the door. Instead, they would break the door down and Sherlock would be better off dropping to the ground and letting John shoot them in the head using the handgun that he had placed within easy reach in the top drawer of his desk. John had proven himself capable and willing to protect him, regardless of Sherlock's confusion concerning his motives or commitment. John's voice broke through his thoughts. 

"Alright, Love?" John was kneeling down at eye level with a concerned look on his face. Sherlock nodded. "You kind of checked out there," he said as he gently pulled Sherlock over to the couch and sat him down. Then he went to the door, unbolted the lock, and swung it open.

A middle-aged man stepped inside. He was wearing a gray trench coat (who wears those anymore?) and was holding a red-brown accordion folder under his left arm. He clapped John on the upper arm with his free hand and greeted him with an easy, yet weary, smile. He was an alpha, slightly taller than John, had silver hair, and the odor of cigarette smoke. The man's carriage and general demeanor made it obvious to Sherlock that he was a police officer. That he was younger than he looked suggested he worked in a division that dealt with heinous crimes and he was in a leadership position, and the work had taken a toll on him. He was wearing a wedding ring, but Sherlock could tell he was not a happily married man. Frustrated with the job, perhaps frustrated with his marriage. No- worried- worried about another case going bad. Suddenly the insights that Sherlock so easily gleaned from this stranger were ground to a halt by paralyzing fear when the man noticed Sherlock on the couch and met his eyes. 

Sherlock's fear instincts were getting harder to control. Where new people had once offered an opportunity for interest (which rarely proved fruitful), they were now only a potential source of danger. New people meant unpredictability and the possibility of upsetting the balance of ignorance that kept John from abandoning Sherlock on the spot.

John motioned to the easy chair opposite the couch. "Greg, this is the young man I told you about. One of your detectives interviewed him at St. Mary's yesterday."

The man, Greg, sat down in the chair as John joined Sherlock on the couch. "Ah, Mr. Wilkinson. Good afternoon."

John turned towards Sherlock on the couch, his body language open and encouraging. "William, this is Greg Lestrade. He is the chief detective at the missing persons unit of the New London Police. He's a friend of mine. We've known each other since college."

Sherlock returned his attention to Mr. Lestrade. Now that he was sitting down and he had John close by, the older detective didn't seem as threatening, and Sherlock's mind opened up again. John trusted this man- a lot. John knew Sherlock was in danger, and that danger could take the form of usually safe and respectable men of the community- the threat could be anyone, but not this man. Moreover, John had invited another alpha, albeit a bonded one, into his home to interact with a vulnerable omega whom he was protective of. Yes, Greg Lestrade was indeed a trustworthy man.

"John asked me to come over and talk with you both. He's explained to me that you fled from an abusive alpha, Charles Magnussen."

Sherlock nodded.

"I have several pairs of detectives searching for him now. They have his residence under surveillance. We are going to make sure that he never hurts you or anyone else ever again. Can you tell us what happened, William?"

John scooted a little closer to Sherlock on the couch and put his arm behind him. He gave him a gentle squeeze, hoping it would encourage him. Both older men sat quietly, waiting for a response from Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock shook his head.

Lestrade glanced to John. "No?"

Again, there was silence in the room. Lestrade had done too many of these interviews and he knew to proceed carefully since it was usually challenging to get an omega victim to cooperate in actions against their alpha and it was very easy to accidentally shut them down. He was probably going to need cooperation from the victim in order to nail this guy. Airing on the side of caution, he decided to move on from Magnussen.

"John also mentioned that one of the doctors at St. Mary's could have helped you but he didn't. A Dr. Sebastian Moran. Do you think he might know any other omegas who need help?"

Sherlock sat still, but eventually he shrugged. 

Lestrade decided to jump in with both feet. It was clear that he was going to have to build a relationship with the omega if he was going to get information from him. Besides, he was getting desperate. "John also said that you are extremely clever. One of the reasons why I came by is because I need your help to get Moran."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

Lestrade opened up the accordion file and pulled out a pair of 5 by 7 inch glossy photographs and put them on the coffee table facing Sherlock. They were portraits, one of a teenage girl, another of a teenage boy. The girl had curly auburn hair, fair skin, freckles, and green-hazel eyes. She had an attractive face. The boy held a striking resemblance, but wore dark-rimmed glasses and had slightly darker hair and fewer freckles. His curly hair was long enough that it probably fell over his eyes, the way boys often wore it these days. He was clean shaven with a strong jaw. As with the girl, he was pretty good looking. 

"About two weeks ago, Monday, April 6, the fire department responded to a house fire on Sugar Maple Street in New London. There was one victim, deceased, Garret McInnis, aged 53. Single father. When we attempted to find the children," Lestrade motioned to the photographs, "we found they were both missing. Twins, 19 years old, both first-year students at a Salisbury College, about an hour's drive away. Caroline is an omega, studying pre-med. Her brother, Christian, a beta, is studying chemistry. Both were last seen leaving class the day of the fire. They were both solid A students, well liked. Involved in school activities, community service, that sort of thing. We've interviewed the friends, followed a lot of leads that turned out to be dead ends. We have no idea where they went or if they even know that their father is dead, but we are assuming foul play."

Sherlock looked thoughtfully from the photos to Lestrade. "What has this got to do with Sebastian Moran?"

"According to the neighbors, Mr. McInnis ran some sort of home-based e-trading business ever since the wife passed away when the kids were still in grade school. He was a pretty reclusive guy, the only people other than the kid's friends who ever came over was a man we've identified as Sebastian Moran. We've interviewed him twice. He has an airtight alibi on the day of the fire and no discernable motive. Apparently he's known the family for years, used to have a private family practice before he closed it and moved to St. Mary's. Just mates, you know, they'd stop by the pub for a pint from time to time. But Moran was a frequent visitor to the house. Seemed real broke up about the missing kids. He's known them since they were young. But, he hasn't been able to provide any information that would help us find them."

Lestrade paused to let the information sink in, hoping that he was at least piquing William's interest.

"Look, William, something about this guy Moran, there's gotta be something here. If he was complacent in your abuse and imprisonment, then he might know more about the disappearance of these kids. Look, you know, especially for Caroline, time is running out. Help us find them."

Sherlock took the photograph of the girl off the table and held it close to his face, studying it carefully. Then, he examined the photo of the boy with equal scrutiny before closing his eyes and sitting motionless for a few moments. Lestrade and John both sat patiently, waiting for his response.

"Did you find any evidence of drugs in the McInnis home?" Sherlock asked without opening his eyes.

"None."

Sherlock sat for a few more minutes. He seemed conflicted, teetering on the edge of hesitant, yet interested. He inhaled abruptly and opened his eyes to look up at Lestrade. "Alright, I'll help you. Give me the file."

"Great!" Lestrade said as he handed over the folder, which Sherlock leafed through.

"Where's the rest of it?" Sherlock asked.

"Um... well... There were a few gruesome photos of the fire scene. But surel..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and interrupted him, "I need all the data, Detective Lesseur."

The detective seemed a little taken aback with Sherlock's suddenly flippant attitude, but he knew it's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Detective Lestrade. And yah, I'll send the rest of the photos over later this afternoon." He paused. John flashed him a little smile. Lestrade collected himself and gentled his demeanor before addressing Sherlock. "Look, William, anytime you want to talk, you know you can talk to me or John, alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, but he was already engrossed in the contents of the file. 

John and Lestrade both rose from their chairs and moved to the door.

"You know where to find me, John. Thanks." And with that, Lestrade was out the door and headed down the steps. He was eager to get outside for a smoke and then hurry back to the station.


	8. Stay

John was pleased, though slightly surprised, to see Sherlock's showing of truculence in front of Greg. It reminded him that Dr. Hildegard had said Sherlock was spirited. He was delighted to see Sherlock so engrossed in his work. The omega spent the rest of the afternoon going through all of the photographs, interviews, and investigation notes pertaining to the McInnis family. He used John's laptop, moving through news sites, perusing files, and reading journal articles at an impressive speed. John brought him glasses of water, juice, and crackers. Sherlock nibbled at the crackers, but was reluctant to stop working for a full meal. By dinnertime, John had to pull Sherlock away from the living room, carrying him by the arms to the kitchen table where he begrudgingly ate the soup and sandwich that John had made for them. That he ate at all was yet another sign of improvement, considering convincing Sherlock to eat breakfast had required stronger methods. Thankfully, Sherlock had been free of the extreme symptoms he had experienced that morning.

By the time the sun had gone down, Sherlock's mood had rapidly deteriorated. He became restless, making several trips between the bathroom, John's bedroom, and the living room, moving pillows, blankets, towels, and couch cushions about the house. By now he was wearing one of John's jumpers, a pair of sweatpants, and some thick socks. John finally took him by the hand and led him back to the bedroom where he wasn't surprised to find that Sherlock had built a nest on the bed, complete with a lot of John's cloths that had been pulled from his dresser and closet.

John pulled Sherlock over to the bed and lifted up a corner of the pile, hoping to get Sherlock settled. "Is there anything I can do, Love?" Sherlock sat down on the bed and pulled the blankets up to his face to smell them.

"I'm cold," Sherlock said as he climbed under the covers. His cheeks were flushed pink and he looked exhausted. Suspecting he might be feverish, John grabbed the thermometer from his med kit in the hallway closet and then cleaned it with alcohol in the bathroom. When he got back, Sherlock was getting out of bed again. 

"No, no, lie back," John said as he gently pushed Sherlock back against the pillows. He put the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth and waited for the beep. "100.4 degrees Fahrenheit. That's a bit of a fever, Sweetheart. Let's not have too many layers." Encountering little resistance, he pulled the jumper up and off over Sherlock's head then he slid the sweatpants down over Sherlock's hips. He was still wearing the t-shirt and shorts that he had on underneath. Then John pushed most of the nest layers to the other side of the bed, where they began to slide off onto the floor. He covered Sherlock with one blanket. 

"Noo.." Sherlock whined as he rolled over and reached for one of the pillows. He grabbed it and hugged it to his chest. Sherlock's eyes were glassy and his mouth was twisted to a deep frown. He was breathing in big gulps of air, getting more and more worked up as he starting to look like he was about to cry. "Something's not right. Why am I so upset? I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel sick. Everything aches."

"I know, Love." John gently rolled Sherlock back over to face him and snuggled them both down into the bed. He held Sherlock against his body and tucked the curly head under his chin in hopes that his alpha scent would help soothe the suffering omega. He stroked Sherlock's hair and rubbed lightly at his back. "I'm going to do what I can, but we're just going to have to ride this out."

Sherlock was fidgety, shuffling his feet and twitching his arms and legs, but he did eventually settle and his breathing slowed back to a normal pace. John would re-check his temperature in a half hour or so, if it rose above 101 he would have to get Sherlock to take acetaminophen or risk having to go back to the hospital. As far as he understood, these were classic signs of brokebond sickness. It was unlikely Sherlock was suffering from any infection as the bite wound, IV site, and stitches on his scalp all looked perfect. Instead, all John could do was monitor the fever and offer support. As long as Sherlock was mildly cooperative and kept drinking water, it was only a matter of time before the symptoms passed. 

It was a long night. By 2 AM Sherlock's fever had climbed to 101.2. John dissolved a packet of Thera-flu in warm tap water and managed to convince Sherlock to drink it, even though he wrinkled his nose and complained at length about the orange chemical taste. Despite some initial gagging, he kept it down and soon drifted back to sleep. John must have been dozing because sometime later he was woken to a surprisingly strong shake to his good shoulder.

Sherlock was sitting over him and the bedside lamp was on. His gorgeous hair was a disheveled mess and he was squinting down at John with glazed-over, unfocused eyes. He was now shirtless. His face and pale, hairless chest were covered in a fine sheen of sweat. John was relieved to see that the 1000 mg acetaminophen must have done the trick and the fever had broken.

"John? I have something to tell you."

"Yah?" John managed as he sat up in bed.

Sherlock licked his lips, opened his mouth as if to begin a sentence with "I", then closed it again. He sat rapidly blinking at John. 

"Sherlock, Love, what do you have to tell me?" 

Sherlock dropped his gaze to his lap, where his fingers were fiddling with the hem of the shorts. John reached out to hold his fingers and realized that the shorts, as well as the bedding, were drenched in sweat. 

"I'm feeling a little better." Sherlock bowed his head and leaned into John. He obviously had something else to say, but John just held him and decided to let it pass. Sherlock would tell him when he was ready.

"I'm glad," John replied.

They sat quietly. John was thinking of getting Sherlock up to change into dry cloths. He would be so much more comfortable.

"John, I was really hot and sweaty."

"That's good, Sweetheart, it means the fever broke."

"But there's something more. It's a little early still, but, um... I think my time is coming soon."

John bent down and inhaled the scent from the back of Sherlock's neck. There was a raw edge to the smell, in addition to sweat and sickness there was something else, something that made Sherlock's sweet tea and cookies scent just a little burnt. _Oh. OH._ Shit. Sherlock's heat was going to start soon. John breathed in the pleasant scent again and he had to fight the slight stirring in his pants that it elicited.

"Thank you for telling me, Sherlock. You've got a little while yet, don't you?"

"Yah, I wasn't expecting this for another week or so. But, I feel so off. Crampy. The... _feelings_ ," Sherlock said that last word with particular contempt, "are never this bad."

"It's the brokebond sickness, Sweetheart." John replied and gave Sherlock a gentle squeeze. "You're going to be OK, we'll get you through this. For now, I'll get you some more water and put fresh sheets on the bed and you can change into dry clothes and go back to sleep. We'll talk more about it tomorrow, OK?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Was that what you wanted to tell me, Sherlock? About your heat?"

Again, Sherlock didn't answer. John knew there was more, but pushing the omega while he was so sick might cause resentment. 

"Will you stay with me, John?"

John wasn't exactly sure if Sherlock was referring to the next few hours or the next few days, but either way, John realized the answer was yes. It was crazy, but something about this fascinating young man made John want to follow him to the ends of the Earth. It felt like over the last 2 days he had found the perfect person to fill in a giant gaping hole in his life he didn't even realize was there.

"Yes, I will."


	9. There's Still Time

The next morning, while Sherlock was still sleeping, John called Dr. Hildegard. He filled her in on Sherlock's attack of sickness the previous morning, the mood swings, the fever the night before, and that he was eating much better now. She assured him that so far the symptoms were typical.

"What if he goes into heat?" John asked as he looked out the living room window onto Baker Street below.

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Dr. Hildegard must have been trying to understand what John was asking.

"You mean regarding the brokebond sickness?"

"Yah," John replied.

"Well, that depends on his proximity to a caring and experienced alpha. If he has one, he would pretty much recover by the time he's through it. If he spends the heat alone, the symptoms will probably persist for at least a week or two after the heat passes. Again, it's really important that he keep up on nutrition, fluids, and hygiene, and is kept safe from being taken advantage of as he continues to recover."

"Ah, I see." _God, this is awkward_ , John thought.

"John, do you want me to write you a prescription for birth control?"

John was relieved that once again, Valerie Hildegard knew exactly what to say. "Could you? Yah, that's be great- I'd appreciate it." 

"Have you taken any in the past?" she asked.

"Yah, Alphazosterol. I tolerated it well." John had the name ready because of course he had thought about it before calling. There were about 10 different pharmaceutical contraceptives for alphas on the market, most worked by crippling the tail of sperm cells, so they couldn't complete the long journey through the omega's reproductive tract to find and penetrate the ovum. In John's opinion, alpha contraceptives were far better than omega contraceptives and certainly heat suppressants, both of which could wreck havoc on the delicate hormonal balances that most omegas needed to feel healthy. Besides, the alpha medications took effect fast enough to be taken on an as-needed basis. 

"Great, I'll call in the script for you to Town Pharmacy at the corner of Baker and Montague. That's close by you, right?"

"Yes, that's perfect."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"No, we should be all set. Valerie, thank you."

"You're welcome, John."

John disconnected the call and made sure his phone was set to vibrate before slipping it into his pocket. He looked in on Sherlock, who was now comfortably sleeping in bed. It felt like they had been up half the night. They were going to have to talk. Hormone suppressants were out of the question given Sherlock's condition, so that meant he had to go through a heat. And like Valerie said, with the right treatment, he should be getting better soon. He would keep him there at Baker Street. He would take care of him and keep him safe. Sex was optional- it would be so much easier, for both of them, but he could make it through without if that was what Sherlock wanted. But, Sherlock was staying, regardless. The thought of having Sherlock spend his heat away from John, either alone and afraid or with _some other alpha_ , churned something in John's gut. _Some other alpha_ would take advantage of him, hurt him. No, he couldn't let that happen. Sherlock was his now, John knew what was best for him, he would take care of Sherlock. 

_His_? John was shocked at himself for having that thought. He took in a deep breath, the air heady with Sherlock's developing scent. He realized that he was half hard in his boxer shorts and his mind was flashing lurid images of Sherlock on all fours on the bed, his head down and his gorgeous ass held high in the air, slick trickling down the insides of his thighs as he whimpered for John to fill him... John swallowed. Yah, he was starting to go into rut. He adjusted himself and backed out the bedroom door. He left it partially open and slipped into the bathroom. He needed a shower and a shave. 

After a refreshing shower (and a quick wank), he emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel and crept back into the bedroom. Sherlock was still sound asleep. John pulled a shirt from the closet and found a pair of clean underpants and trousers on the floor (thanks to Sherlock's clothing redistribution frenzy last night, he would have to reorganize everything later). He went over to the bedside table and swung open the door to reveal the small quick-lock safe where he kept his pistol at night. He punched in the number combination on the key pad and the door sprung open. He carefully pulled out the Sig Sauer 9 mm sidearm that was resting inside and he grabbed his belt and holster from where he left it on top of the safe. He retreated into the bathroom, dressed, secured the gun in the holster at his hip where it was hidden beneath his cloths, brushed his teeth, and ran the comb through his towel-dried hair. Looking at himself in the mirror, he appeared strangely well-rested and he felt good, a little more energetic than he had in a while.

Out in the living room he set about picking up. The couch cushions and throw pillows were still in his bedroom, but at least he could return the various books to the bookshelves and put all of Sherlock's notes together with the contents of the case file on the coffee table. He heard Mrs. Hudson, his landlord and downstairs neighbor, come in through the front door and proceed to her apartment before closing the door behind her. It was only about 8 in the morning, so she must have been out last night. Mrs. H. was a kind lady, not too old, she was probably only in her early 60s. Beta, she had been married when she was "young and foolhardy" as she put it, but she had now been divorced for a long time, never had kids. She had taken a shine to John; he reminded her of her nephew, who was killed in action overseas in a helicopter crash. She had been the one light in John's life and he enjoyed chatting with her- she was an upbeat lady and her gleeful enthusiasm for life was a little contagious. He helped her out as much as he could, for instance, just last week he replaced the flapper valve on her toilet.

John pulled his phone from his pocket and typed a message for Mrs. H. _Can we talk? Nothing bad, I just need a favor_ and hit send. It was hard for John to ask for help, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock home alone and he was eager to get things sorted. Also, it would only be polite to give her a heads-up, since things might be a little noisy around 221 Baker Street over the next few days.

Within seconds, he heard Mrs. H.'s door open. He hurried to descend the steps before she came up, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs instead.

"John, Dear! Come in, I was just making tea."

"Actually, Mrs. H.," he hesitated. Being this far away from Sherlock was making him nervous enough and he could still see his open apartment door from where he stood. There were only 2 units at 221 Baker Street, so it wasn't as if there was any one else there besides the three of them, but, still, he wanted to be within earshot.

Mrs. Hudson stepped towards him and sniffed the air, then a giant smile sprung up on her face, proof that she knew John had special company. "Oh, John! I had no idea." she exclaimed with glee, "And look at you, practically glowing..."

"Yes, yes, well, I'm afraid we need some things from the drug store and I was wondering if you could..."

"I'd be delighted!" she interrupted him. "Oh, John, I'm so happy for you! About time, it is," she spouted on. 

John could feel himself blushing. "Indeed. I really appreciate it, Mrs. H. There's a prescription in my name at the pharmacy."

"Not a problem at all, my dear. I'll run over right away. Do you boys need anything else?"

"No, Mrs. H., that's all. Thank you again."

She gave him a hug, then flashed him a smile and a wink before returning down the hall to her apartment. John wasted no time before climbing the stairs and disappearing back inside his apartment. He closed and locked the door behind him, scanning the room to make sure everything was as he left it. Going to check in on Sherlock, he noticed the light in the bathroom was on and the door was closed. He gently knocked.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock answered from inside.

"Are you OK?"

"Yes. I'm just using the toilet."

"Alright, I'll be in the kitchen. Take your time," he added. 

Sherlock joined him at the breakfast table about 15 minutes later, wrapped in a sheet.

"Good morning, Sherlock, how are you feeling this morning?"

"O.K. Much better than I did last night." Sherlock sat blinking, looking around the kitchen. His gaze moved out to the living room and settled on the coffee table. "Oh!," Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from his seat at the table like he had just sat on a tack. He rushed over to the file notes that were piled neatly on the coffee table where John had just put them. "That's right! I need to see Caroline and Christian's apartment. Can you call Lestrade? And tell him his detectives really did a sloppy job, they didn't even take any photos, just declared the house where the twins were staying normal and moved on. What idiots. So much to see, yet they didn't observe!". Sherlock paused and seemed to remember he was wrapped in a sheet. "I need clothes, John. Actual cloths. Maybe you have something mildly tasteful a little on the small side that I could wear?"

John stood gaping for a moment before he recovered the ability to speak. "Hold on!" He took several deep breaths, tamping down the urge to carry Sherlock back into his bedroom and lock them both inside for as long as it took. That was, of course, a very unproductive suggestion supplied by his monkey brain and would probably just scare Sherlock senseless. They hadn't really talked about it yet. He was having trouble reconciling the quiet, scared, sick, and vulnerable Sherlock of the night before from the confident, well spoken, abruptly energetic, and mildly arrogant Sherlock now standing in his living room clad in a sheet. He continued as calmly as he could. "Are you serious? Sherlock, you were sick as a dog not 12 hours ago, you're still sick even though you seem to be feeling alright at the moment, there is a very dangerous man probably out there looking for you, and on top of that, your heat is coming on! Why would you want to go out?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if he didn't really register everything that John had just said. "John, I just told you. The police department's finest did a very poor job collecting evidence so I'll need to go there myself if we're going to help Lestrade find Christian and Caroline McInnis."

"And what about your heat?" John repeated.

There was a pause. John could see the words sink into Sherlock's brilliant brain. Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he looked down at his hands clutching the sheet closed. He had been so animated, it was painful for John to see him wilt like that.

"I have time." He said quietly. "At least a few days. I'll take suppressants and maybe there might be an omega shelter willing to take me..."

John moved across the room in a blink and knelt in front of Sherlock. He pulled the case notes out of his hands, tossed them on the cushion-less couch, then grasped both of Sherlock's smaller hands in his larger strong ones.

"Sherlock, listen to me," John said sternly, holding eye contact with the now cowed omega. "You are not taking suppressants, not with brokebond sickness. It would just make you sicker for longer. And you are not going to an omega shelter. I want you to stay here with me. I want to take care of you, and help you through this. I would be honored to share your heat. I would never hurt you, never do anything that you didn't want me to. If you don't want me to knot you, I won't, I wouldn't touch you at all, but please stay here with me. I promise I will take care of you the way you deserve."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. A tear streamed down each cheek. "And what about after?" he asked without opening his eyes.

John hadn't really thought that far ahead. He assumed once Sherlock was better, and this bastard Magnussen, and maybe also Moran, were behind bars, he'd want to get back to his life. Didn't he have family? A job or school? Friends? Whatever life Sherlock had before, the thought that John could be part of it made him... happy. Would they go on dates? Proceed through a traditional courtship? Just be friends? No matter what, John felt there were nearly endless possibilities for the two of them together. He just wanted more time. More time with Sherlock.

"I want to be with you, Sherlock." John gave his hands a gentle squeeze. "In anyway you'll have me. If you want to live here with me, I'd want that. But if you only wanted to be roommates, friends," John tamped down the disappointment in his guts at the thought of being _just friends_ , "well, I want that, too. Anything you're willing to give me, Sherlock, I'll be a better man for it."

Sherlock opened his eyes and searched John for a moment before he answered. "Why, John? Why would you want me?" He was breathing faster now, getting more agitated. "You hardly know anything about me, I could be selfish and rude and arrogant. Maybe I've done things that hurt other people."

Sherlock was gently trying to back away, but not struggling, and John held fast to his hands as he thought hard about what Sherlock just said. It was true- he knew so little about Sherlock. He only just met him 2 days ago. His past was a mystery. Sherlock's personality over these past few days was probably different, too, his moods swung so quickly between timid, insecure, and scared to confident, brash, and clever. John had the distinct feeling the latter set of characteristics was closest to Sherlock's true personality, which he liked, actually. He was a brightly burning light that made all things nearby look brighter.

"I can't tell you, Sweetheart, because I don't understand, either. What I do understand is what's in your past won't change how I feel. And the person you are now, even if you change once you get past the brokebond sickness...even if you are rude and arrogant, you'd still be brilliant and gorgeous and willing to risk a lot just to help a pair of people you've never met. I'd want to share that with you. Please let me."

Sometime while John was talking Sherlock had stopped trying to pull away and was standing stock-still with downcast eyes. He sniffled a little and nodded. John pulled him into a hug and held him firmly for a few minutes. Then he backed away, holding him by the elbows at a half arm's length and looking him straight in the eye. "OK, that's settled then. You're staying with me, I'll take care of you. I will take contraceptives so we are ready and I will service you through your heat. Is that was you want?" Sherlock raised his ocean-green eyes to John's and lit up with a shy, adorable smile, accompanied with an enthusiastic nodding of his head. The open vulnerability and trust that John saw in him at that moment was breathtaking. Once again, John was reminded of just how far Sherlock had come. "Now, you have a few days before your heat starts?"

"At least," Sherlock replied.

"May I?" John gestured to Sherlock. He was asking for permission to scent the omega. Not only would it give him a better idea of when his heat would start, it was a very intimate and pleasurable gesture.

"Yes, you may."

John pulled Sherlock back towards him. He held his head steady in one hand and pushed the soft curls away from behind his ear with the other. He buried his nose there behind Sherlock's ear and paused to enjoy the closeness. He inhaled slowly, opening his mouth just a little to get as much of the smell as he could. There was an edge to Sherlock's scent, but it was still blunt, rounded without the sharp sweetness that would form in the coming days. He darted his tongue out to sneak a tiny taste of the creamy skin. It was salty with a slight lemon-like tang. Sherlock smelled fantastic, but the savory scent and flavor of an omega on the eve of a full heat was something that John was experienced enough to recognize, and it just wasn't there yet. John really wanted to bend down, pull the sheet away, and press his nose into Sherlock's groin, to get a real nose-full of the hormonal and anatomical transformation that would be happening there. Oh, God, he wanted to, to thoroughly enjoy Sherlock. Besides, that was the most reliable way to gauge the change. He inhaled once more, deeply and slowly. He was already sufficiently confident that Sherlock was a day or two off. Plus, his cock had already gotten stiff in his pants, which was inconvenient and uncomfortable. 

He added the finishing touch, firmly rubbing his cheek and neck over Sherlock's skin, covering him with his claiming alpha scent. He would redo it periodically in these hours leading up to Sherlock's heat, it was a clear sign to other alphas that this omega was spoken for. 

He rocked back on his haunches and sat down in his chair, leaving Sherlock standing next to the couch, holding the sheet up to his chest and staring back at John with wide eyes. "Right, I agree, at least 24 hours. Now, you want to see Christian and Caroline's apartment?"

Sherlock shivered, coming to his senses. He sat down on the cushion-less couch and holding the sheet in place with one hand, he picked up the case notes with the other.

"Yes, there's an address here. They were renting the carriage house at a well-to-do business man's vacation home close to school. There are probably clues there, but I need to see for myself."

Sounded interesting, anyway, John thought. "Yah, alright, I'll call Lestrade."

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"But," John added, holding his finger up for emphasis, "there are rules. First, you'll bath and eat breakfast before we go. Second, you stay close to me at all times. Third, the moment I say so- for any reason- we leave. Understood?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock smiled. 

"Right, you go get in the bath. Just like before, don't get your hair wet, I want to keep the stitches dry. I'll help you wash it." 

"Yes, John," Sherlock smiled again and rose from the couch. He started for the bathroom, the sheet trailing along behind him, then he stopped and turned back. "Thank you."

"You're welcome" John replied. He smiled as Sherlock turned his back and walked quickly towards the bathroom.


	10. Nice House in a College Town

Less than an hour later they were headed down the 2 lane highway towards Salisbury in John's Tesla. John was driving, they had the sun roof open, and Sherlock was watching the countryside through the open window. Despite being a Saturday, there were few cars on the road. Mrs. Hudson just happened to have some men's cloths on hand that fit Sherlock: a pair of black slacks and an aubergine long-sleeve button-up shirt. It was a beautiful bright and sunny spring day, and Sherlock was wearing a spare pair of John's sunglasses. His feet were in an old pair of John's black leather dress shoes, now too tight for John but they were an expensive pair that his father had bought for him before he deployed, so he hadn't been able to bring himself to get rid of them. Even with a heavy pair of socks, they were still a bit big on Sherlock. They would have to go shopping and get him a proper wardrobe eventually. Not only did Sherlock look fabulous in the flattering purple color, with the sunshine streaming onto his face and the wind ruffling his clean hair, but being wrapped in clothes that had been in Mrs. Hudson's closet for so long made him smell like a beta, obscuring the omega scent that would pique the interest of any alpha they might encounter. Sherlock's unruly curls covered the stitches on his head and John had put a bandage over the bond bite, just to minimize any attention it might draw.

The farms gave way to houses, which turned to apartment buildings, shops, and restaurants, until finally they were moving slowly through town, surrounded by brick university buildings and students walking between classes. Sherlock had John's phone and was navigating, "next left," he told John. They traveled down a lane of large, extravagant houses, most just barely visible behind tall evergreen hedges and stone walls. 

After less than half a mile they arrived at the correct street address. The double wrought iron gate was open and they pulled through onto the granite cobbled driveway. Rising up before them was a large, 3-story brick mansion. It had dormered windows in the steep pitched roof, a rounded tower on the left side, and a widow's walk and spire rising above the magnificent house. Large oak trees dotted the edge of the drive, bringing abundant shade and adding to the overall impression of refinement the home conveyed. They followed the circular driveway past the front of the house and through the portico. They continued down the oak lined drive towards the smaller carriage house and stopped behind the police car that was parked there.

John half expected Sherlock to go leaping out of the car, but apparently he had remembered the rules and waited for John to put the car in park, get out, adjust the firearm on his hip, and walk around to the passenger side.

Lestrade met them with a greeting and a friendly nod. He was obviously pleased to hear that Sherlock (or William as Lestrade knew John's new charge, they still hadn't told him his real name) had taken his request for help seriously. The female officer (alpha) with him greeted them cordially but was obviously skeptical, and probably annoyed at having to drive an hour and a half out there. John was a little hesitant around this new alpha, but Sherlock's heat was far enough, especially in Mrs. Hudson's cloths, it wouldn't be obvious.

"So, nice digs, huh?" Lestrade said gesturing over at the main house as they proceeded up the walkway towards the front door of the smaller house. "This used to be the garage where they would keep all the fancy cars, turned it into a living space. Owner is some rich alumni, hasn't been here since last summer. Probably rents it out for the tax write-off." 

The house had white clapboard siding and dark pink azalea bushes dotted along the front. Bees buzzed from flower to flower. Lestrade produced a key attached to a laminated label from his pocket and opened the door to let them all in before continuing his description. 

"Caroline and Christian rented the place for the school year, starting last August. 2 bedrooms, no roommates. Nice, I guess Dad had some money, or a lot of debt," he remarked, but Sherlock had already tuned him out and was taking in the clues that he saw everywhere around them. The house was still and quiet, all the windows closed and the air stale. There were three pairs of woman's shoes on the mat by the door, a scented oil diffuser and some cookbooks on the kitchen counter. A few photos stuck to the refrigerator with flower-shaped magnets showing high school-age girls posing in prom dresses. There were a few dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, leftovers in the refrigerator, a couch and two chairs in the living room, but no TV. Sherlock ran his fingers along the window sill and sniffed the air, bending over to get a better smell of the couch cushions. The female officer stood watching Sherlock with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. Sherlock headed up the stairs and John followed behind, but still heard Lestrade mumble under his breath, "Cool it, Donovan." 

The upstairs was simple: one bedroom to the right, one bedroom to the left, with a bathroom in between. Lestrade and John watched Sherlock as he turned right and began examining the room that was obviously Christian's. He moved around the room, again checking the windows, then stepped inside the walk-in closet. 

When he was satisfied, he moved across the landing to Caroline's room, cutting Donovan off as she had just reached the top of the stairs. She wore the same sour put-upon expression she had since they arrived, but she said nothing. John followed Sherlock while Lestrade hung back in Christian's room, examining the contents of the desk drawers. Christian's room had been neat and tidy, outwardly normal looking, but Caroline's was a mess, a collection of odd clues. It looked like she was moving out. There was a jewelry box on the desk next to a stack of framed photos. The dresser drawer was open, and Sherlock could see it was empty. There was a full laundry basket of clothes, some folded, others crumpled, by the door. A closed laptop computer and bundled charger cord were on the top of the clothes in the basket. The bed was unmade and piled high with clothes, still on hangers. The stack of cloths was precarious, the garments still settling against each other, like they had just been placed there. Sherlock froze in his tracks. He turned towards John, mouth open, as if in slow motion, and began to say, "there's someone..." 

At that instant the closet door burst open and a large man lunged into the room like a feral animal sprung from a cage. John's adrenaline spiked and he leapt towards Sherlock to shield him, but the man was only interested in escape. He got as far as the bedroom door before Officer Donovan dropped him to the ground with a well-placed jibe to the solar plexus. She had him face-down and handcuffed almost instantly.

"Oi, what's this?" Lestrade asked coming in, startled yet surprisingly nonchalant. He bent down and grabbed one arm of the man, while Sergeant Donovan gripped the other and they hoisted him onto his feet and propped him back against the wall. "John, William, you two OK?" Lestrade shouted, glancing over his shoulder at them.

Donovan and Lestrade were strangely calm, but John was a man on fire. He felt like he was ready to kill someone, break something, or run a marathon. Or maybe all three. Regardless, he would take Sherlock with him. He hadn't felt his adrenaline pump so hard since the war. He had drawn the firearm and had Sherlock clutched tightly behind him, protecting the omega from danger with the physical barrier of his body. He was breathing heavily, frantically scanning the room for additional threats. He felt the walls close in on him and he needed to get out. Saying nothing, he manhandled Sherlock past the two officers and the intruder, down the stairs, and out the door.

Sherlock, who had been silent the entire time, went willingly. Once outside, John pulled him over to an opening in the azalea bushes and pushed him against the house. He held him there, with one hand on Sherlock, one hand brandishing the gun, and scanned the open lawn and driveway with his eyes. He stayed just like that, taking deep breaths in and out, until he started to feel a bit calmer. Several minutes passed and then John slowly turned to Sherlock and bent down. He kept one eye over his shoulder at the surroundings and did a cursory examination of his charge. Sherlock's eyes were alert and fearful, and he was trembling, but John thought Sherlock was actually handling the situation much better than he was.

"John, we're coming out the front door now." Lestrade yelled from inside. The unidentified man emerged, hands behind his back and wearing a pained expression on his face, being pushed laboriously by a mildly annoyed looking Officer Donovan. She took him straight to the police car and after rummaging around in his pockets, sat him in the back seat with his legs still out of the car. Lestrade approached John, but kept back with his hands open and visible. "I'm sorry, John, we should have cleared the house before bringing you two in there. Are either of you hurt?"

"No we're fine," John replied. He was on edge, he needed to get back to an environment that he had more control over. Someplace he could protect Sherlock better than out in the open. He watched Donovan close the back door of the cruiser, confining the man inside. She went around and cracked the back windows before coming over to them and handing the man's wallet to Lestrade. Donovan was obviously not a fool so she kept back and avoided eye contact with John as well. 

"Said nothing?" Lestrade asked.

"Not a word, Sir," Donovan replied.

"Well," Lestrade continued as he looked through the wallet only to find it was empty save for a little bit of money, "at least we've got another lead. Unless he's a hapless burglar, maybe he'll give us something to go on."

"He's more than just a burglar. Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock spoke up, his surprisingly deep voice audible behind John.

"Um... What?" Lestrade asked, surprised,

Sherlock hesitated in responding so John piped in, "Yeah, out with it. We know you're a genius and you've already figured it out so let us all in on the story."

"Well, I doubt he knows anything. He was obviously here to pick up Caroline's things- collect her clothes, jewelry, and personal effects. He probably left his car parked nearby in the driveway of one of these other fancy empty houses. Most of the things in the house obviously belonged to Caroline, while Christian's things were few and confined neatly to his room. Two first year college students- of the few books we saw lying around, none were on chemistry. Caroline's computer was in her room, but Christian's is nowhere to be found. Clearly, Caroline left in a hurry, but Christian had the time to pack up his things. And then there's the distinct odor of formaldehyde in the living room, and it was especially strong in Christian's closet. The man you have in that car knows where Caroline is, but he's too loyal to his employer to tell you anything. Caroline was kidnapped, plain and simple. Christian, I fear, has been involved in something nefarious for some time. The case notes mentioned he worked at the storeroom for the organic chemistry research department at the university?"

Lestrade took a moment to catch up enough to realize he had just been asked a question. "Yes," he answered.

"Put your two best surveillance officers on the building where the chemical storeroom is. Chances are, Christian, or a henchman, will show up. If your men see anyone suspicious, they should remain undetected and follow from a distance. They should not, under any circumstance, make contact with the suspect."

Lestrade had taken out his pen and notepad and was feverishly jotting down notes. "Yah, OK, got it, but why chemicals?"

Sherlock's eye roll was almost audible. "Drugs, Detective! He's making designer drugs. It seems likely that Caroline's disappearance is related, but you must exercise utmost caution not to tip off her captors or else they'll run. Look for Christian and you will identify the players."

John looked up to see the man in the back of the police car had turned around in his seat and was looking him straight in the eye with an arrogant smirk on his scruffy face. Once he had John's attention, he winked. It was brazen and almost vulgar. John felt as if a knife had just stabbed into his chest, re-raising his hackles in an instant. He needed to get Sherlock back onto his own territory. They were leaving. Now. "Right, Lestrade, you've got what you wanted. Thanks for the outing. We're leaving." He pulled the pliant Sherlock along, holding him on the opposite side of his body from the police car and hurried back to the Tesla. He opened the rear door and pushed Sherlock onto the back seat, "Stay down," he commanded, before closing the door and moving around to get in the driver seat. 

Officers Lestrade and Donovan stood gaping and watched the slick black car speed off down the driveway. "Bit of a freaky pair, huh?" Donovan remarked. 

"Maybe a little. Beggars can't be choosers, you know."

After a few heartbeats of companionable silence, Donovan asked, "back to the station then?"

"Yeah, you drive. I'll lock up. We'll have to get crime scene back out here to go through the house, see what's different from the first time. Although," Lestrade trailed off, admitting to himself that the clever omega was right, they did a shit job to begin with. The paperwork and questions were going to be hell on this one. 

Donovan headed back towards the police car. Lestrade glanced up to the beautiful spring sky and then pulled the cigarettes and lighter from his coat pocket.


	11. Weathering the Storm

Sherlock was occupying his favorite thinking position: flat on his back, knees bent, eyes closed, but instead of the couch or his bed, he was in the back seat of John's car. He hadn't bothered asking John if he could climb up into the front seat, the scenery would just be a distraction anyway. Sherlock's mind was a whirlwind of activity, mapping out the case, identifying the unknown variables, and designating a set of possible outcomes. Person A led to person B which would later inhibit processes F and G, and at the end was Caroline McInnis. 

He decided to visit his mind palace. The palace contained 8 memory rooms, 4 rooms on 2 levels with central hallways and a grand staircase at the back. The layout and contents of each room were based on a place he had been to in real life. He had built the memory palace one room at a time as he grew up. The first room was his bedroom when he was 8 year old. The second was his classroom at school the same year. When those rooms weren't big enough to store larger datasets, he added the bathroom from the house where he lived when he was 12. He added more rooms over the years: the cafe he used to stop at for tea between classes at school, the chemistry laboratory (also from school), the barbershop where he got his hair cut, the quiet reading room at the town library, and finally, his favorite room so far, the foyer of the natural history museum which contained the skeleton of a great mastodon.

Sherlock used the chemistry laboratory (first room on the left, top of the stairs) to file away the information from the case and the details he had observed at Christian and Caroline's house. He savored the easy flow of his thoughts, knowing it would come grinding to a stupefied halt very soon. He felt a gentle weight settle on his knee and then pull away for the 7th time. Ah, John just checking that he was still there. As if he could have dematerialized or opened the door and fell out without John noticing. Coming into rut, then. Unfortunately, John probably wouldn't let him leave Baker Street once they got back. 

Satisfied with the details of the case, he left his memory palace and allowed his thoughts to wonder on to other topics. He considered, with great intrigue, how he really should have been _more_ scared of the brute who had taken them by surprise in Caroline's room. Yes, he was frightened, but his focus had centered not on the potential danger or threats, but instead on John. A primitive part of him trusted that John would protect him. It was very different from just the day before when Lestrade had come to the door. Sherlock's reaction focused on himself: get away, John be damned. Today had been different. His singular reaction was focused on John. Stay close to John, John would keep him safe. It was very confusing to Sherlock, which of these reactions was being amplified by the brokebond sickness? Now that he was thinking of it, he never got a good look at the intruder. It was of no consequence, Lestrade would book him and take photos. 

His thoughts wondered on. He thought about his father, he had always been such a strong man. He was upbeat and ingenuitive, highly intelligent, and had a cutting sense of humor. He worked himself to the bone so Sherlock could attend the finest omega schools and have the best private tutors and violin teachers. Growing up, Sherlock never doubted for one instant that his father wanted him, that he was loved. Maybe it was to compensate for his mother leaving. Sherlock remembers her, and his older brother, even though he was only 4 when they left. She must have been so disappointed when she had an omega boy. Very few parents wanted omega boys. Maybe if he was born something else, anything else, she would have stayed. 

Sherlock never missed his mother much, but he knew his father did, and he wished he could do something to help. Growing up, he sometimes regretted not having a brother or sister, he was often on his own. But all-in-all, he had a good childhood. It was just him and his Dad, the two of them against the world. Even once Sherlock started high school in preparation for university, he preferred to return home and spend time with his father rather than play sports or hang out with the other students after class.

Then, his father got sick. They found the cancer too late, so he didn't qualify for any of the experimental treatments that might restore him to the strong man Sherlock knew, or at least let him live. Sherlock was devastated. A chance encounter with Dr. Sebastian Moran provided a glimmer of hope and a way for Sherlock to help his father. But in the end, all it did was buy them a few more years. Sherlock had never shaken his tiny fist at the universe so hard. He had fought the inevitable so valiantly, so steadfast in his belief that everything would be OK. Eventually, they ran out of time. Sherlock never regretted what he did until he met John. John who was kind and courageous and cared so much for people.

Sherlock was making himself sad and worried, so he returned to his mind palace. This time, instead of going inside to visit the memory rooms (he did not need to put away or retrieve any information at the moment), he went to the garden outside. The palace garden was a much more disorganized and dynamic than the rooms inside. It was a safe and pleasant place where he went to practice visualizations and mindfulness. Each time he visited, the plants and the season changed to fit his needs. Today it was springtime. Fine, bright green grass surrounded a near-ancient flowering cherry tree. It was in full bloom and the honey bees buzzed between the flowers, the soothing sounds of their wings humming through the garden. Sherlock laid down beneath the tree, but he was not alone there. John sat with him, Sherlock's head cradled in his lap. Mind palace John was quiet and calm, he stroked Sherlock's curls, brushing away the cherry flowers as they fell, comforting his despite the sorrow he carried at the recent loss of his father.

Sherlock was pulled away by a bad cramp squeezing at his insides. The pink cherry blossoms against the blue spring sky faded to the dark upholstered interior of John's car. This was going to be miserable. The physiological changes leading up to a heat, especially among omega males, were very uncomfortable, and usually happened slowly over 3–4 days. This time it was progressing much more rapidly than Sherlock expected. He was already beginning to feel the nausea and vertigo. Well, at least a shorter build-up meant the whole mess would be over sooner.

Another touch at his knee. John Watson. The _real_ John Watson. There was a little flutter in Sherlock's stomach. How had he been so fortunate to chance upon this man? As awful as heat was, he was actually, dare he be honest with himself, excited to spend it with John. He had never gone through a heat with an alpha before, it was much too risky. Instead, he would isolate himself at home in his bedroom for his quarterly heats. With the windows and doors locked, his beta father would slide packaged food and bottled water through a hatch in the door. Sherlock mostly ignored the provisions as he was too busy engaged in the shameful acts of trying to satisfy the need. The urge to be stretched and filled and held. That itch that he couldn't scratch, the hunger that he couldn't sate.

A wave of nausea came and went. The car glided almost silently along the highway accompanied by the hum of the tires against the road, interrupted occasionally by the soft _click-click-click_ of the blinker when John changed lanes. The motion and the warmth of the sun, combined with being in the small space with John, was soothing. Sherlock must have drifted off to sleep. It was a blissful reprieve from his body's tumult.

Sherlock woke when they got back to Baker Street. They climbed the stairs to B, where there was a large paper shopping bag hanging from the knob of the front door. The urge to urinate, defecate, or throw up, or do all three, sent Sherlock running straight to the bathroom where he stayed for the next hour. John was, of course, an extreme version of a mother hen, leaving his side for only a minute or two at a time. He rubbed gentle circles on Sherlock's back and wiped the sweat from his brow. He pulled the bandage off the bite bond, there was no purpose in hiding it now, and dabbed some more antibiotic ointment over the stitches on his scalp. He brushed Sherlock's hair aside while he heaved into the toilet, and then bent him over the sink to help him wash his face afterwards. It was abundantly obvious John was sporting an impressive erection, but Sherlock had no interest in John's giant cock at this particular juncture. This was the time when inexperienced or reckless alphas could severely hurt male omegas. It was vital that they wait for the reproductive opening to completely unfurl and for the lubricating fluids to freely flow before the omega was ready to be penetrated and knotted by an alpha. Such logistics or thoughts of what was to come were hardly on Sherlock's mind. He was living one moment to the next, just focusing on making it through each round of sickness.

John helped Sherlock change into the soft clean cotton pajamas that had been in the bag, which were a thoughtful gift from Mrs. Hudson. When his now completely empty stomach finally calmed down enough to leave the bathroom, John carried him out to the living room and propped him up in the oversized chair. Sherlock just wanted John to stay with him, but instead John moved the chair over a few inches so he could still see Sherlock from the kitchen, and then made a quick trip to get some water, sports drinks, and crackers. When John returned, he snuggled with Sherlock in the chair, supporting his limp figure against his side. 

Sherlock did manage to eat and drink a bit, especially after John threatened him with an IV. They sat together, covered in a blanket with their feet up on the hassock, while John continued to gently stroke his hair and mumble soft words of encouragement. He switched on some daytime TV. It was a Law and Order marathon and Sherlock paid less and less attention as the episodes went by. Sherlock's mind and memory were getting fuzzier, and eventually things went downhill. 

He remembers wrapping his arms around John and hugging tightly against his warm chest, John giving him something to drink that was sweet and creamy and chocolate-flavored. He remembered being hot and sweaty, having awful diarrhea and John gently wiping between his bum cheeks with a damp cloth. He remembers being hysterical that John was going to abandon him here and that Charles Magnussen would come back and claim him for good. He remembered John trying to reassure him with soft words. "I'm not leaving, you're staying here with me. You're safe here. You're doing really well. You can do this. I'm going to take care of you." He lost sense of time, and maybe it was dark outside. Eventually, the awful reality of being sick and confused from heat and brokebond sickness fell away and was replaced by a wonderful new reality. 

In this new reality, Sherlock finally got what he had been begging for. John's firm hands smoothing over every part of his body we like a drink of water to a man dying of thirst. Being surrounded by the intoxicating scent of John and John's semen, riding wave after wave of carnal satisfaction, and being clutched tightly against the solid body that was tied to him from behind. He remembers restful sleep, waking moments with pulses of fluid oozing from his canal, and the sticky mess in his bum crack and spread down the insides of his thighs. In everything, there was John. John was there, taking care of him. Sherlock wanted to take everything John would give him, and he wanted John to take what he desired in return. He felt like the luckiest person in the world because he finally had the one thing he never knew he needed. He finally had John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come visit me on Tumblr!!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


	12. Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, everyone. Here, have some porn.

John Watson was a man of tremendous patience and self-control, but the sight of Sherlock on his hands and knees, stance wide, ass held high, chest low to the bed, begging- actually _begging_ \- to be fucked was almost too much for him to bear. He had only stepped away for a minute- a quick trip to the kitchen to grab a large glass of water and some snacks. He would have brought Sherlock with him, but the omega finally appeared to be resting, though just lightly. So lightly, in fact, that he left the light on, fearing that switching it off would have woke him. It had been a challenging night and it was still dark outside.

"Pleeeeeeeease John!" Sherlock whined as a small pulse of slick dribbled from his still too tight canal. The smell was divine, it was so deliciously like something he wanted to eat that his mouth watered. John's hard cock twitched in sympathy as he stood in the doorway and admired the sight in from of him. Like Sherlock, he had given up his clothes hours ago in favor of just walking around stark naked. He reached down and squeezed around the knot at the base of his penis. It wasn't enough, only one thing could possibly sate him at this point, and that was Sherlock's tight hole clenching around him, taking every last drop of cum he could pump into him. 

Even out of his head with heat hormones, Sherlock knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted from John. "John, please, I need you... I'm scared..." John crossed the room and sat on the bed.

"Shh... sh... beautiful, I've got you, you're safe here with me" he whispered as he stroked his expert fingers over and inside the wet hole. Sherlock was almost ready for him, but John knew he had to wait just a little longer.

"John, fuck me, please, I want your knot, I want it now. Please," Sherlock whimpered.

"Shh.. Love, I know, just hang on a little longer." He gently stroked up and down, in and out at Sherlock's velvety insides, hoping it would pacify him, pressing firmly inside his rim and reaching forward to stroke his small omega penis with his slippery lubricant-covered hand. Sherlock quieted and John continued his ministrations. John probably couldn't, and didn't want to, bring Sherlock off like this, he just needed to delay a little longer. Sherlock was temporarily satisfied, but eventually his moans and whimpers escalated again into begging, and despite John's best attentions, Sherlock became more and more inconsolable. Finally Sherlock broke down into sobs. His mindset had shifted from impatient and needy to paranoid and spiteful. He suddenly pulled away, John's fingers sliding from his body. He shuffled across the bed and turned to John, his face a perfect picture of shock and betrayal.

"That's it! You're going to leave me here, you've planned all along to give me back to Magnussen! That's why you won't knot me... oh my God..." Sherlock trailed off. He looked away from John, his eyes searching the room as if he were looking for an escape.

It was too much for the alpha to take, a few hours ago when Sherlock had spoken his fear that John was going to abandon him, John had soothed him with tender words and caresses. This time though, the rut hormones were wearing him down. Something snapped, and before Sherlock could back up any more, John was on top of the trembling omega, pinning him down against the bed, breathing heavily on his neck and ear, ready to assert his dominance.

"Silence, omega," he growled, "you're mine. You will take what I give you when I say you're ready to take it." Sherlock had the tenacity to struggle against his hold. John growled a low rumble, opening his mouth wide and firmly taking Sherlock's neck between his jaws. It was a discipline hold, much too high and not nearly hard enough to break the skin and form a bond, but usually sufficient to instill a bit more cooperation in a receptive omega. As expected, Sherlock instantly went limp. John hummed his approval, but held the bite. When he finally let go, he licked at the site. No blood, just teeth marks. 

"That's a good lad, so good. I'm going to take care of you, but you must do as I say. Understand?"

Sherlock only answered with a heavy breath and a nod of his head. 

"I didn't hear your answer, Sherlock," he growled.

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered, sounding appropriately repentant. Then, as best he could, with his hands and legs pinned, he tried to snuggle up into John, seemingly asking for forgiveness.

"Good boy," John mumbled, "be patient, I will reward you very soon." He released Sherlock's wrists and settled his weight onto his elbows then shifted to the side, sliding his arm under Sherlock's head and adopting a more comfortable snuggling position. He resumed licking at Sherlock's neck, and then thoroughly breathed in his scent, which had developed nicely as Sherlock progressed along. Sherlock had become alluringly submissive. John was so hard, his knot was bulging, he wanted Sherlock now but he welcomed the interval of peace. He took a deep breath and squeezed Sherlock close. Soon, he thought. Just a little longer.

Less than an hour later Sherlock was back on all fours, presenting his delicious ass and John knew it was time. He didn't need confirmation, but he leaned close, snuffling deeply at Sherlock's hole, licking up a tiny taste of his slick. His canal was wide open and winking, but John pushed one finger inside anyway, just to make sure. He pulled his finger out and quickly covered the whimpering omega, bracing his weight on either side of the smaller man's shoulders. Finally, finally, he drove himself home and Sherlock's whimper was cut off with a moan. He was so wet and hot and _tight_. John slid in until he felt his inflated knot press against Sherlock's rim. He pulled out and pushed in a few times, it felt so good. Again, he stopped when his knot pressed against Sherlock's rim. His knot was already getting hard and Sherlock was too tense, he wasn't going to be able to get in unless Sherlock relaxed. 

"Sherlock, Love, be a good boy." He cooed into the omega's ear while undulating his pelvis, dragging in and out, slowly, gently, just a little. He leaned down more heavily on Sherlock's back, and moved his left hand down across the front of Sherlock's hips, to brace his pelvis against what was about to happen. "I want you to take a deep breath for me, all the way in, and let it all the way out." In his hyper-submissive state, Sherlock immediately complied. He inhaled deeply. Just as he reached the end of a long exhale, John drove in, _hard_ , his strong grip holding Sherlock in place. He felt his knot slip past the tight opening and Sherlock cried out, his body clamped down around John's knot like a vice grip, locking them together.

Sherlock went limp except for convulsive twitches in his arms and legs. The omega would gasp and yell, then sigh and moan, the walls of his canal relaxing and tightening as he rode through wave after wave of pleasure. John held Sherlock's weight tight to his chest and felt a contraction start in his lower back and move to his pelvis as the first large spurt of cum began gushing into Sherlock's body. "Yesss..." Sherlock moaned, his body greedily clamping even harder to milk out more of John's seed. "John, I-" Sherlock started, but was cut off as once again he twitched and shuddered, gasping and sighing gibberish. John marveled at the unique ability of omegas to do this- in heat sex, once knotted, an omega would remain in a suspended state of orgasm, paralyzed with pleasure, surging over peak after peak. It was probably an adaptation to keep the omega from struggling to get away prematurely and causing injury to the alpha. 

This was a little bit unnerving for inexperienced alphas- having your dick trapped inside another body, the only course of action being to wait it out, wait to be released, 15-30 minutes- or even longer. John felt another wave of tension form and release in his belly and the contractions started again as he filled Sherlock with another wave. He clutched Sherlock's hips, pumping in and out as much as he could, God his knot was huge. He savored the feeling, licking at the skin on Sherlock's neck, drinking in his scent and his taste. It was so _right_ , it made him feel so whole, buried deep inside his omega like this. Sure, alphas didn't get an intense joy ride the way omegas did, but it was still incredibly satisfying. Servicing Sherlock like this, giving him what he needed, it was a privilege. "Mine" he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "all mine," he repeated, but Sherlock was too far gone to respond.

Not that he was timing it, but it was probably at least 25 minutes. Sherlock had quieted, his breathing slowed, and he felt the omega's clutching hole release him. His cock slipped free, followed by a rush of cum. The first coupling was always the most voluminous. Sherlock let out a complaintive moan at the loss.

"Shh... let me rest, Love," John soothed as he laid down next to Sherlock, turning the omega to face him and then pulling him against his chest. His rut hormones were pulsing through his veins, but his natural tendencies as a caretaker were always there. He carded the fingers through Sherlock's hair and studied his face. Sherlock was quiet, his eyes closed, his expression serene. "How do you feel?" John asked.

"Stretched. But I want your cock again," Sherlock responded feistily. John's dick gave a twitch, he'd be ready again soon.

Sherlock was fine, apparently. Once again, John let the alpha go, it was just a matter of instinct now. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm going to fuck you again and again, and fill you until you're overflowing with my cum." He took a deep breath, pulling in his own smells that were all over the pliant omega, "mm... you already are," he growled in Sherlock's ear. 

"Please, more," Sherlock whimpered. 

"Patience, patience. Give me a few minutes, then I'll fuck you and knot you again. I'll go slower next time, I'm going to pump you full. You'll take it and take it until I'm done with you." Sherlock wiggled closer, already he was getting restless. The pace was always fast in the beginning of a heat, but then it would slow down. John wasn't thinking about it now, but he enjoyed the quiet interludes, the snuggling, the intimate conversations that would inevitably occur. In a few minutes he would pull Sherlock back up onto all fours and fuck him again from behind. They would tie together, John's body emptying itself into Sherlock, the tie would let go, and the cycle would repeat. They had another 20–28 hours of this to go. 

The sun would rise and the sun would set. John would coax Sherlock to eat and drink between rounds, a proper alpha made good use of an omega's obedience to make sure they were well cared for. At one point, they wouldn't even make it back from the kitchen to John's bed. John bent Sherlock over the kitchen table and fucked him just like that, eventually collapsing to his knees on the kitchen floor- his cock trapped inside the omega, waiting to be let go, one arm clutching him close, the other supporting both their weights. At another point, there was a fierce coupling in the hallway when they couldn't make it back from the bathroom. It was an exhausting marathon of carnal activity, intimate in some ways but frenzied and mindless in others. John had a fair bit of experience. He had cared for male omegas through heat before but this was different. It was still distinctly _Sherlock_ , unique and exhilarating. 

John wanted more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come visit me on Tumblr!!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


	13. Getting Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never specified the country where this story takes place, but this chapter requires mention of money. I used U.S. dollars. For reference, median household income in the U.S. is between $50,000 to $70,000 per year.

John opened his eyes to the mid-morning sun streaming in through the curtains. The fog in his head was just clearing. He was sore all over, especially his lower back and shoulders. Even his nuts and foreskin were sore. He dick was irritated and he had rugburn on his knees. His mouth was dry and he had a gnawing headache. It was like being hungover, all he wanted to do was go back to sleep.

Despite feeling like complete crap, he was, perhaps, the happiest man in the world, because wrapped up in his arms was a warm, quietly snoring, gorgeous, brilliant, exhilarating, lovable omega. He took a deep breath and gave Sherlock a firm hug. Actually, said lovable omega was also completely covered in his semen. The smells in the room were heady. An alpha in rut was pretty nose-burning, if John could smell himself this strongly, it was probably like a punch in the face for anyone else. Poor Mrs. Hudson. John hoped she had managed to get away for a day or two and stay with one of her friends. John had some vivid recollections of his and Sherlock's behavior over the past day and a half, and he knew they were loud. The fading scents of ripe omega were just barely being displaced by Sherlock's background tea and cupcake smell. Sherlock sighed but remained asleep. John had no desire to get up, so he let himself drift back asleep.

They spent several hours snoozing and cuddling. Without discussing it, it seemed they had both come to the common conclusion that their relationship would be moving beyond the heat. When they were both awake, John enjoyed kissing Sherlock for the first times- thoroughly exploring the tastes, textures, and shapes of the inexperienced omega's gorgeous mouth. It didn't take long before he was sporting a pretty impressive erection. However, after one thoughtless thrust against Sherlock's thigh, the painful protestations of John's used and abused cock were enough to quash his exhausted libido. Instead they were more than happy to just lay in bed together for hours, kissing, talking, and snuggling.

Sherlock opened up a little more to John about his earlier life. Apparently, this was his first heat with an alpha. Sherlock never dated, he just wasn't really interested. John was a little incredulous that no one had snapped Sherlock up. Certainly, he must have fielded near constant interest from other alphas- how could he not, he was gorgeous- but he turned every one of them down. He was always scared of being bound to another person, being drawn away from his home and his family. Though John found it attractive, Sherlock's intellect and confidence, his gall and arrogance probably rubbed many alphas the wrong way. Sherlock had been an excellent student in high school and wanted to attend University to study chemistry, but it wasn't in the cards. Sherlock didn't go into detail, but it seemed to John that he was reluctant to leave home, which was not an uncommon sentiment among omegas. But for Sherlock, there was something more, and John wondered painfully what happened that he was now apparently homeless, that he must have lost the home and family that he cared so deeply for.

Sometime in the early afternoon, they finally got out of bed and went to the bathroom to clean up. Sherlock had now completely lost any traces of modesty that he had when John first brought him home and bathed him. As Sherlock limped unabashedly naked from bed to the shower, John was taken aback by what he saw. Sherlock's pale hips were now covered with darkening bruises from John's strong hands grasping while he thrusted into him from behind. The omega's neck, shoulders, and upper back were covered with hickies and nibble marks from John's teeth. And Sherlock wasn't just sporting a little rugburn on his knees as John was, his elbows, forearms, shins, and even the tops of his feet were covered in angry red abrasions. Even though it was pretty standard aftermath of an alpha in rut vigorously coupling with an omega through a heat, John was still taken aback. In his mind he was having trouble reconciling the young man in front of him with the wounded and vulnerable patient who had come to him for help. That John had actually hurt his charge was painfully contrary to everything he valued and he stood frozen, watching Sherlock as he urinated dark yellow into the toilet.

"John, I can hear you thinking. Please stop worrying, you didn't hurt me." He finished peeing and shook off his small omega cock before flushing the toilet and closing the lid. "As a matter of fact," he said with a smirk, "that was perfect. And now, I have the marks to prove it." He was essentially preening, showing off his slender neck and shoulders. He looked in the mirror and reached up to touch his scalp. "Can I take a shower? I want to wash my hair for real this time. It's been at least 4 days? 5 days? What day is it?".

"I think it's Monday, and yes, you can shower and get the stiches wet. I'm still showering with you and shampooing your hair though."

Together they showered and got dressed. Sherlock's pajamas from Mrs. Hudson were dirty so he had to put on another pair of John's sweatpants and a t-shirt. John ushered Sherlock into the kitchen and sat him down at the table with a glass of water and some toast while he collected all of the dirty laundry and ran down to the basement to put it into the wash. Despite suffering from the same dehydration headache as John, Sherlock was now ravenously hungry and it seemed the majority of the brokebond sickness had completely faded away. John cooked them both a hearty meal of breakfast foods- mushroom and sausage omelets, potatoes, and more toast. Sherlock took his medications, he still had another several days to go on the antibiotics.

They passed the rest of the afternoon quietly recovering from their ordeal and enjoying each other's company. They snacked, watched TV, played Yahtzee and then Cluedo, listened to music, surfed the net. Sherlock had almost forgotten about the case until John's cell buzzed with a call from Lestrade. On speaker phone, Lestrade gave them an update. 

"Last night my deputies saw Christian McInnis return to the chemistry storeroom. He was with an unidentified male accomplice who was driving him in a black late model Toyota Corolla. Christian used a key to gain access through the door next to the loading bay and took about 10 minutes before returning with a medium-sized cardboard box. My men followed the pair back to an office unit at the Harbourside Industrial Park off Route 19. They've been observing the location ever since but haven't seen any further activity."

Sherlock had been hoping Christian would come to the storeroom soon. He wasn't at all surprised that Christian would have to choose the supplies he needed himself and that he was being guarded. So, at least now they knew Christian's whereabouts, but Caroline would be more difficult to track down.

"Keep a close eye on Christian's location. It's only a matter of time before someone shows up to either deliver supplies or take away the product. Make sure your deputies are observing their surroundings extremely carefully. If I'm right, which I often am, they have a sizable drug operation going on there, so there will probably be counter surveillance at the industrial park for protection. Start making plans to extract him, but don't act yet, we need to find Caroline first."

"Got it," Lestrade replied.

"Do you think Christian knows where Caroline is? Or that she is even missing?" John asked.

"I suspect she is being used to secure his cooperation. So, if he does suspect where she is, he's been threatened sufficiently and is smart enough to keep quiet and not alert the police. That means that he is confident she won't be hurt as long as he goes along and is probably safe unless the police interfere."

"So, what about the father?" Lestrade asked.

"Did the investigators' lack of competence prevent them from observing evidence of foul play at the fire scene?"

"Um, well, they concluded that McInnis must have been transferring gasoline between two fuel cans in the garage when the vapors were ignited by the pilot light on the hot water heater. The fire started and McInnis wasn't able to escape before succumbing to smoke inhalation. They determined it was an accident."

"Really, Detective?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and was ready to launch into a rant about how the investigators were obviously stupid. He had read through all of the information in the file on Garrett McInnis. Why would a pencil-pushing, work-at-home dad who paid a lawn service to maintain the yard bi-weekly have a reason to transfer fuel between gas cans in his closed garage? Did he even own any small engines that ran on gasoline? Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John stopped him with a look.

Lestrade broke the momentary silence. "Yah, I know," Lestrade continued, "Do you have any ideas on where Caroline is?"

Sherlock closed his eyes to think.

"Oi, still there?" Lestrade demanded through the phone.

"Yeah," John responded, "Give us a minute. Sherlock's thinking." After a brief pause, Sherlock was still not responding, and John had a thought, "I don't know, but something that you said when we were at Christian and Caroline's house- that Dad had either money or debt? All colleges are expensive nowadays, but sending two kids to a private school can't be cheap. What did he do for a living, again? Did he really make that much money? Christian couldn't be making that much, could he?"

Sherlock's eyes sprung open, "Brilliant, John!" he exclaimed. He turned towards the phone, "Detective, can you get access to Garret McInnis' business and personal financial records?"

"Yeah."

"Please do, and e-mail them to John."

Lestrade promised the files and then thanked them both before ringing off. He was obviously energized by the progress in the case but was probably worried by the increasingly apparent failings of his investigators.

Within an hour Lestrade sent over a secure file server link with a large volume of Garret McInnis' records. Sherlock had been a fixture at John's desk with John's laptop for several hours, searching through the files, case notes, and recording his own thoughts in a notebook. John had tried to offer assistance, but Sherlock insisted he would only know what he was looking for when he found it, and was otherwise non-conversational for the rest of the afternoon. John focused on finishing the laundry, changing the sheets, neatening up the flat. He cleaned the bathroom. John didn't mind so much, it made him happy to see Sherlock so entrenched in the work. Despite how exhausted he must be, it seemed having something to engage his intellect energized Sherlock, and John was thankful for that. 

John was in the kitchen preparing dinner when a shout from Sherlock brought John into the living room. He bent down to look over Sherlock's shoulder to see the laptop screen. He had multiple windows of bank accounts, earnings statements, and financial records open.

"Look here, John," Sherlock said as he pointed to an entry on the ledger, "McInnis was working as an investment manager, buying and trading stocks online. It looks like he was pretty good at it and made a considerable amount of money, both for himself and for his clients. This account, registered to Natalie van Berenberg, posted about $160,000.00 in earnings over the past 3 years. Here's another: Gregory Farris: 106k last year." Sherlock clicked to the next page, scanning down the lines with his eyes. John was tired of bending over, so he had stepped over to the couch to sit down. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, he was still quite tired. "Here's another: Jessica G. George." He clicked to the next page and paused. "Oh," he said. "And... Sebastian Moran. 2019 net profits: $137,010.33."

"Huh," John remarked. "So he was managing Moran's investments? Doesn't seem that unusual to be both friends and have business dealings. The McInnis family were patients at Moran's practice way back when too, right?"

Sherlock didn't reply as he continued to click and scroll through the files. The silence stretched. John opened his eyes and tipped his head forward. Sherlock's seemed distracted, anxious, like the case was wearing on him.

Sherlock swallowed hard a few times and kept his eyes on the screen. "Indeed", he replied. "Um.. then I wonder about these other people. The majority did not have accounts quite as large..." he trailed off.

John rose and as he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead, the young man quickly closed several windows. He gave John a weak smile. He looked pale and tired. It was understandable really, after surviving, then escaping, an abusive alpha, then brokebond sickness, and finally going through a heat. 

"We'll give Lestrade a call. But, I think you could use a break, Sherlock. Come, sit with me on the couch for a while." John didn't care so much about Moran or the elder McInnis, he just wanted Sherlock to rest a bit.

Sherlock looked up from the computer to smile at John. "Alright," he replied as he closed several more windows and then shut the laptop. 

After dinner, Lestrade called back. Natalie van Berenberg was a very old lady who died in 2012. Gregory Farris was also dead, and Jessica G. George did not exist, at least not a Jessica George associated with the address and date of birth given in the account information.

John was perplexed, and Sherlock showed little of his usual enjoyment when he demonstrated just how clever he was. "McInnis was laundering money, John. It was probably Sebastian Moran's money. Drugs seem obvious."

"So Christian was manufacturing?"

"Yes, John, do keep up."

"No, I mean some of those accounts went back 10 years. I doubt he was making drugs at age 10. Even in high school, all the information we have suggests that Christian was a very engaged student who spent all of his spare time at school clubs and doing community service, when would he have had the time to work in a drug lab? There must be other sources."

Sherlock was a little surprised by John's astuteness, he raised a good point. The passing of his rut was apparently allowing a bit more of his natural cleverness to return. But, Sherlock was getting tired and he didn't want to talk about Garret McInnis' business dealings anymore. It was nice to have a more solid connection between Moran and McInnis, but it didn't help find Caroline. He laid back on the couch, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin to think. So something happened to upset their arrangement. Perhaps McInnis threatened to break off the partnership, or maybe he threatened to go to the police. That McInnis was now conveniently dead hardly seemed like a coincidence. 

"Are the police watching Moran?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade said yes, he's at work tonight. There's a pair of agents tailing Moran and watching the hospital."

Sherlock didn't reply. His silence continued, even after John sat down and rearranged them so Sherlock's head was resting on his lap. Sherlock wasn't asleep but was in a meditative state. There was no need to visit the palace garden tonight, instead he took inventory of his body, the feels and sounds of John and Baker Street. John read a paperback novel for about an hour and then his eyelids were drooping. He was exhausted from the last few days, so by 10 O'clock that night, he managed to get Sherlock up and ushered into bed. Together they fell into a long and restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come visit me on Tumblr!!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


	14. Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, y'all. I am posting 2 chapters today because chapter 14 is a little short.

A knock came at the door early the next morning. John was already up and dressed, but Sherlock was still in bed. It was Lestrade, haggard-looking as usual. John invited him into the kitchen for tea, which he gratefully accepted.

"Is William around?" he asked.

"Yah, still in bed. Why? You want to talk to him?"

Lestrade was quick to respond, "No, John, actually, I was hoping to talk to you." 

John was curious. He motioned towards the kitchen table indicating Lestrade to have a seat, and then he pulled back a chair and sat down himself. Lestrade sat opposite and produced a folder from his brief case and placed it on the kitchen table between them.

John looked from the folder to his friend's worried face. 

"John, after I spoke with you two yesterday, I started thinking about the house fire. I went back through recent investigations of house fires. And missing persons. There was one of both about 3 months ago."

John said nothing. He felt a weight settle in his chest. He was suddenly on edge, just ready to pounce on Lestrade. God, he wanted to know but he was afraid at the same time. He was ready to shoot the messenger before hearing the message. "Just tell me. Please."

"Mid-January, a house in Downtown Salisbury, fire caused by faulty wiring in the basement. It was the longtime residence of William Scott Holmes, public attorney. Well respected in the community. He passed away last December after a long battle with liver cancer. Listed on the death certificate as a widower. His only son, who was living with him at the time of the fire has been missing ever since. Sherlock Scott Holmes, male, omega, aged 27." Lestrade produced a mugshot and placed it on the table. As way of explanation, he added, "Charged with possession of narcotics in 2010."

The photo on the table, of course, showed a teenage Sherlock. Holmes, apparently. He was photographed standing in front of the height markings with a string of letters and numbers held in front of his chest. His angular features were just as beautiful in his youth, despite a sprinkling of teenage acne, and his hair was even longer and more unruly. His eyes were sharp and haunting, conveying his natural strength and determination. He looked disappointed or angry, put upon for the inconvenience of being caught breaking the law, but there was something else there on the young man's face. A sprinkling of fear, uncertainty. Understandable for a 17 year old, really.

John had nothing to say to Lestrade. All he wanted to do was run to Sherlock, scoop him from his bed, and hold him in a tight hug. He would tell him that he was sorry about his father. He would reassure him that he didn't care what was in Sherlock's past. He stared at the photo for a while longer. Maybe he was a little angry that Sherlock hadn't told him, that so much about him was still a mystery. John hadn't pressed it, he had wanted Sherlock to tell him in his own time.

"Possession? Drugs?" John asked.

"Released on his own recognizance, charges dropped on a technicality. No other contact with the police."

John's mind was racing. Drugs? There were no signs that Sherlock used. Even though the mugshot was 10 years ago, if he had been abusing needle drugs as a teenager, there would have been scars. And John looked, there were none. John sat with his hands folded on the kitchen table, focusing on his interlaced fingers as he clenched his jaw. The floor boards creaked and he looked up to see Sherlock standing like a deer in the headlights in the kitchen doorway. He clutched the door frame with one hand, his feet planted squarely.

"Can you excuse us, Greg?" John asked.

"Certainly, John, if either of you need anything, just call me." He rose from the table and made a quick exit. Sherlock hadn't acknowledged Lestrade and was now standing with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if he could block out the world with just his eyelids.

Before the door clicked closed behind Lestrade, John was up and across the kitchen to Sherlock. He knelt in front of him and let himself indulge in the one action that felt completely natural at that moment, he drew Sherlock to his chest and held him tightly. The omega was stiff in his arms. Was Sherlock angry they had gone behind his back, Lestrade digging into his past and John receiving the information, essentially approving the transgression? Was Sherlock afraid that figures from his past might reappear? Did Sherlock get the opportunity to grieve his father? Did Sherlock understand that John wasn't going to abandon him? 

"Oh, Love, I'm so sorry you lost your father," he said quietly. He held him firmly, stroking the back of Sherlock's curly head and listened carefully for a reply, but none came.

John released Sherlock and leaned back to hold him at arms length and look into his now open eyes. Sherlock looked shattered: sad, scared, tired. John felt awful for Sherlock for a lot of things. He was sorry Sherlock lost his father, and then lost his home in the fire. He was sorry Sherlock had suffered so much at the hands of a cruel man.

At that moment, on his knees in front of Sherlock, looking into his sad green eyes, John realized something important: he couldn't do anything about Sherlock's past. Sherlock had to fight these things. But John could do a lot about Sherlock's future. He would be here to help Sherlock come to terms with his demons, when he was ready, but it would do him no good to have John dwell on his past. 

"Sherlock, I want you to understand that nothing in your past will shake my affection for you. I'm concerned about you, though. You've made it through a lot of difficult things, and I don't want you to still be suffering. I'm going to do everything I can to help. Anytime you want to talk, I mean anytime- you just tell me, OK? Do you understand, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked hesitant and pensive. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. John waited patiently. 

"Do you want to talk to me now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Do you understand that you can talk to me anytime?"

Sherlock nodded.

John gave him a brief smile and then pulled him back into a hug. This really was the best he could do for Sherlock right now. He had to be patient, focus on getting Sherlock settled in at Baker Street. They had to establish a new normal. John resolved to take it one day at a time. At that moment, he promised himself that he would do everything he could to provide the support, consistency, and time that Sherlock needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for making Sherlock such a sleepy-head! I know ACD's Sherlock was always up and usually out before John, but my Sherlock really enjoys sleeping and doesn't have much else to do lately.


	15. A Call to Action

John and Sherlock spent the next several days relaxing and enjoying the quiet domestic contentment of each other's company. Sherlock got a smartphone and a new phone number on John's cellular account. They went shopping for Sherlock, who, as it turned out, had refined (and expensive) taste in clothes. He chose a few pairs of well-fitted black pants and a variety of shirts: one white and several in rich hues of blues and purples, all of which John thoroughly enjoyed seeing him try on at the store. Sherlock also got boxer-briefs and socks that fit right, which were quite an improvement on the droopy underwear that he was borrowing from John. He settled on a pair of black leather shoes, though John got the impression that he would have preferred fine Italian leather or something like that. They had decided if Sherlock were to access his bank account (which was quite healthy since he was the sole inheritor of his father's estate and the beneficiary of his life insurance), it might start a trail of evidence that could enable Magnussen to find them, so John picked up the considerable bill with Sherlock insisting he would pay him back soon.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door one afternoon, and John was really delighted to see her. She brought cookies and John invited her in for a some tea. He was honestly a bit eager to show off his gorgeous omega to Mrs. Hudson, he was fond of her and knew she was happy for him. Sherlock took a shine to her right away, they talked at length about their common interests which, unexpectedly, included baking, watching independent films, traveling internationally, and reading classic literature. John learned that Sherlock actually spoke several languages fluently, including French and Spanish, along with some proficiency in Arabic. 

The pair went for regular walks outside. There was a little-used park nearby with a pleasant path winding through the woods. Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock a long, black, wool coat, which he always wore with the collar turned up when they were out, so John was reasonably confident the chances of him being recognized by anyone were slim. They kept abreast of Moran's whereabouts, just in case, and only left while he was known to be at the hospital. They watched TV, played board games, read books, surfed the internet. 

There was little progress on the case. Lestrade sent over a fresh cache of photos of the McInnis kid's house and the rest of the property. The man who broke in had an outstanding warrant as a person of interest in a murder, so he would be in custody for quite some time. Sherlock did not recognize the man from his photo. The police had questioned the thief at length, but were unable to get any information out of him or a connection to Moran. They never found the thief's vehicle, so he must have had an accomplice driver who got away unseen. The owner of the property, Steven Winthrop, was the CEO of a large media company who conducted his business from New York and only visited the house occasionally during the summer. He was a successful alumni and charitable supporter of Salisbury College. He was as helpful as he could be, but unfortunately his home security system, which focused on the driveway entrance and the main house, had not been recording for several months. Even going through security footage of the neighbors, the police hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. Charles Magnussen was still missing, and Sherlock was ready to assume he died in a ditch somewhere, succumbed to brokebond sickness. They were both still cautious though, John was always a little on edge when they left the house.

Sherlock talked about his father and John listened attentively, knowing the passing of his own father had been very difficult for him. The senior Holmes was a prosperous criminal defense attorney, working hard to defend people who were accused of crimes. He was quite good at his job and took enough cases that he often took on clients who couldn't afford to pay much, but he believed they deserved a good defense. He was committed to his profession, but devoted to raising his only son. Every summer, he would take time away from work, and take Sherlock to visit a new place: Thailand, Austria, the Galapagos Islands, Egypt, Alaska. It partially explained why Sherlock spoke so many languages. Though he valued his time with his father immensely, it sounded to John that Sherlock otherwise grew up rather lonely, and John regretted that he hadn't been surrounded by more people who loved him when he was younger. Once again, though, John reminded himself that the past was important, but he had resolved to be in the present with Sherlock.

John enjoyed seeing Sherlock laugh and smile more, it seemed he was shaking off the last vestiges of the brokebond sickness. His energy levels improved and although he didn't eat much, he assured John that his appetite had returned to normal. It seemed several days of consistently good nutrition were making a difference. They spoke with Dr. Hildegard briefly on the phone, they decided it wasn't necessary for Sherlock to see her, but perhaps she would stop by the following week and follow-up bloodwork would be in order within the next month or so. As John had, Dr. Hildegard had grown fond of Sherlock in such a short time and she was happy to hear he was doing so well. John neglected to mention their involvement with the police in the hunt for the McInnis kids, it would have just worried the good doctor unnecessarily. 

For John, the considerable strains of being an alpha in rut were also pretty much passed, the sore muscles and exhaustion were gone and John even managed to get embarrassingly aroused watching a movie with Sherlock one night. He had taken care of that situation, by himself, of course, in the shower. The prospect of making gentle love to Sherlock Holmes was forefront in his mind the entire time he jerked himself off. He wanted to show Sherlock sexual intimacy, that there was so much more than just the cold biological imperative of heat sex. John knew Sherlock had a lot of trauma from the past he was going to have to process, perhaps with a little help, but adding the burden of a romantic relationship was certainly not something John wanted to foist upon him. John would wait as long as Sherlock needed to be ready. There was an unspoken understanding Sherlock would stay with John for as long as he needed, but for now, their relationship could be best described as flat mates with snuggle benefits. They slept in the same bed, but since the morning after Sherlock's heat had passed, they hadn't as much as kissed. No, there was no need to rush into anything, they had time.

It was late in the morning on Thursday. Sherlock was busy on the computer, looking over Caroline's social media and hoping that he would find something important that he had missed before. John was seated comfortably in his oversized chair with a cup of tea pretending to read the newspaper. The window was open, letting in a pleasant warm spring breeze that rustled the curtains and filled the living room with the fresh smells of spring. 

John had been away from work for over a week and even though he had a few more days off, he was going to have to return soon or give up his position. He was conflicted, as he would be uncomfortable leaving Sherlock alone all night, especially with Magnussen and Moran unaccounted for and at-large, respectively. He was waiting for a good opportunity to broach the subject with Sherlock because he knew it would probably cause him stress. Even though Sherlock was fiercely independent, often working on his own, he was still fearful of being away from John. A couple of times John had tried to get a pulse on Sherlock's views of things moving forward: John going back to work, Sherlock finding more to occupy his time, taking on other cases or applying to college. Sherlock had shut down the conversation, and John understood that he still wasn't ready.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by a call from Lestrade on John's cell, which John put on speaker phone assuming Lestrade wanted to speak with them both. Lestrade spoke quickly once he confirmed both John and Sherlock were listening. 

"A call came in to the dispatcher about 10 minutes ago from a young woman claiming to be Caroline McInnis. They were unable to trace the phone number or pinpoint the location of the call and Caroline abruptly hung up after less than 20 seconds, unfortunately she couldn't give us much info." Lestrade continued with the few details they had, he knew time was of the essence, especially if her captor had caught her calling for help. "She says she is being held in a basement by Steven Winthrop, the owner of the mansion and carriage house where they lived. Her and Christian were attacked by two men who were hiding in their house when they got home from class. She was blindfolded and driven in the back of a delivery van for 30 minutes or an hour to where she is now, that's all we have," Lestrade added.

"I assume you have a recording of the call?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Lestrade replied. "Look, we're getting ready to go pick up Christian, we've got nothing else to go on."

"No!" Sherlock yelled, "I told you, that will only make Caroline's captor run with her,"

"They are probably already running, what else can we do?" Lestrade countered.

"Let me and John come down to the station and listen to the recording. There's got to be something you missed that can offer a clue to where she is."

John had been listening to the exchange pensively, but at Sherlock's suggestion that they go down to the station, his hackles raised. It could be dangerous.

"Where's Moran?" John demanded.

"At St. Mary's until 7 tonight." Lestrade answered.

Sherlock looked at John with a pleading look in his eyes. "John, please," Sherlock whispered, "we're her best hope."

John ruminated on it for only an instant- Sherlock was right, even if it was a risk, it was the right thing to do.

"We're on our way, Greg."

John disconnected the call. They were both already dressed and Sherlock jumped up, heading for the door for his shoes and coat. John grabbed him by the arm, stopping him. His adrenaline was coursing through his veins and he could see the same excitement in Sherlock.

"Just like before, you stay with me, understood?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, John, let's go!" In just a few seconds, they were out the door, down the stairs, and hurrying to the police station in John's Tesla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [DrFish on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


	16. Rescue

When John and Sherlock arrived at the station, they were ushered immediately to a technology lab where a technician was processing and enhancing the recording. Officer Donovan, who they met at the McInnis kids' house, was there as well, examining maps and spreadsheets on the large screen of a nearby desktop computer. She nodded respectfully toward the arriving pair but otherwise paid them little attention.

"Thank you both for coming so quickly," Lestrade said. He looked to Sherlock questioningly. "What would you like me to call you?"

Sherlock was a little surprised by the question. He adopted the alias of William Wilkinson, taken from his father and one of their ancestors, so often that he responded to the name almost automatically. "Sherlock is best."

"Right, Sherlock, this is Mike, one of our audio technicians." Mike (beta, mid-thirties, steady boyfriend, two dogs, plays tennis) smiled a brief greeting then played the recording, turning up the volume on the high quality speakers. It was exactly as Lestrade said, Caroline described being taken from her home, driven blindfolded for 30–60 minutes, and was being confined in a basement by Steven Winthrop.

"Winthrop's been away from his office in New York City since the second week in March. He was supposed to be vacationing on the French Riviera, but we haven't been able to confirm that he ever arrived there. We tried tracing the phone number that he used when he returned our inquiries regarding the kids' disappearance, but that number is disconnected and we haven't been able to get call records. We are working on a warrant for his personal and business cellular records. It doesn't look like Winthrop owned any other properties in this area. 30–60 minutes by car is a large radius, there are so many buildings where she could be." Lestrade let out a deep and frustrated sigh as he shook his head. The man looked wrecked, on edge, and sleep deprived.

"The call, let me hear it again," Sherlock asked. Mike the tech played it again with the spectrograph showing on the screen. They all listened intently. "Again," Sherlock demanded. 

John leaned down to see the screen and get closer to the speakers. "There," John said. "It's faint, but right before she hangs up, there's a background noise."

The tech backed up the recording and played it again. All five of them listened carefully. "Here," John said, pointing at a bright region in the 4–6 kHz range on the spectrograph, "Maybe it's this bit here?"

The tech played it again, this time he amplified the frequency range that John had indicated. Now, they could all hear it. It was a constant mechanical whining noise that abruptly started right before Caroline disconnected the call.

"Sounds like... a chainsaw," John said. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and turned over John's words in his head. _A chainsaw_. Chainsaws are used to _cut trees_. Trees cut for lumber? No, not so close to Salisbury. Suburban landscaping. Sick trees, dangerous trees, trees too close to powerlines, trees with roots pushing up the road or breaking into water pipes, broken trees, _fallen trees_...

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place, hitting Sherlock like a bucket of ice water. In his head, he could see the photos of Winthrop's property that Lestrade's agents had taken the day before and sent over to Sherlock. Sherlock had looked through them all, just in case he saw anything he had missed, having been rushed away so quickly after the incident with the burglar. One of the photos showed the front of the carriage house, but just at the edge of the frame, Sherlock had noticed the freshly splintered wood of the trunk of an oak tree jutting up towards the sky.

"She's at Winthrop's house by the University!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What!? How could you know that!? Besides, they drove for too long!" Donovan barked.

Sherlock smirked. He enjoyed explaining it, so he continued, speaking to the room. "It's an old trick. They drove around for a while to make her think they had traveled a greater distance. If not, she would have known exactly where she was. One of the oaks lining the driveway fell down and the tree workers must have been there this morning." Sherlock shook his head. "It was just a little too convenient that Winthrop's security footage wasn't available. And the burglar- that's why the police couldn't find his car and you and Donovan didn't see the accomplice flee when you arrived at the carriage house the day we were there. He didn't have a car, or a driver, he was walking from the main house." Sherlock paused. "Caroline didn't panic and hang up because her captor was returning, she hung up because the chainsaw started and the noise would have prevented her from hearing her captor return, making it too risky to stay on the phone. That means perhaps he still doesn't know she called for help!"

The room was silent as Lestrade thought. In just a few seconds, he made a decision. "Donovan, get Salisbury PD on the phone, we need every agent they have available. We're going to have to get to Winthrop's and the drug lab in Harbourside at the same time."

Donovan nodded her understanding and left the room, yelling to another agent as she began to wrangle the people they would need. Lestrade sent a last haggard glance to John and Sherlock as he headed towards the door, "Sherlock, I hope you're right. Wait here. I'll be right back," and then he disappeared from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is very long, it makes up for this one being so short. Go ahead and click that "next chapter" button, if you're ready for it. We are in the home stretch, 3 more juicy chapters. It might take me a little extra time between these next updates because I want them to be very polished for you, so please hang in there!


	17. Evening After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: In this chapter, we see Sherlock struggle with some trauma from his previous sexual assault, but nothing bad happens to him at this point in the story. Just in case you've made it this far and you think this might be triggering for you, please just skip this chapter. I'll let you know what you missed at the beginning of the next chapter ;)

The dual rescue operation was a success. Sherlock was right, of course, when the joint New London / Salisbury task force had entered the mansion, Winthrop was caught unaware and Caroline was removed unharmed from the basement where she had been held captive for almost 3 weeks. Christian was extracted from the industrial park without a single shot fired. The young man assigned to keeping Christian guarded was working alone, scared, and he gave up easily. 

By the time they left the New London Police Station that evening, where they had remained throughout the whole operation in relative safety upon John's insistence, they both should have been exhausted. However, John was still feeling the glow of the endorphins from the successful conclusion of the case and Sherlock was energized by the novel feeling of having helped someone. With Caroline's phone call and John's excellent hearing, _he_ had cracked the case. Everything had turned out as good as it could be. Of course, Caroline and Christian had lost their father, but they were both safe and they had their whole lives ahead of them. Sherlock wondered if Caroline would become a doctor, and if so, how many people would she help? Would she be like John: a miracle wrapped up inside a professional and unassuming package? Sherlock watched the streetlights flash off John's handsome features as the Tesla glided down the road. John caught him staring and gave him a warm smile that added significantly to Sherlock's contentment.

They stopped for Chinese food on the way home. They sat next to each other in a booth and held hands for most of the meal. They made an attractive couple. Sherlock was almost angelic in the low light of the restaurant and John noticed for the first time the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that appeared when he smiled. Sherlock dexterously ate his entire meal with chop sticks, at one point stealing the last dumpling off of his companion's plate. John loved the oolong tea at this particular restaurant, and even though it was getting late, he had several cups. He wasn't tired anyway and when the day finally caught up with him, he knew caffeine wouldn't be able to keep him from falling asleep.

Back in the car, they talked and laughed all the way home. Once inside 221B, Sherlock slipped out of his black wool coat and neatly put it on a hanger. He looped the blue scarf over the hanger as well and then reached up, going onto his tip-toes, to hook it over the bar in the coat closet. When he turned around to take John's coat, he was surprised that John was standing about 2 inches behind him. He had already shed his own coat (which was tossed carelessly over the back of a living room chair) and he looked deep into Sherlock's eyes with a level of love and wanting that Sherlock didn't recall ever seeing before. 

In that instance, the atmosphere between them transformed from excited and light to laden with a heavy importance. The easy smile faded from Sherlock's face as he studied John's serious and determined expression. John took him by the hand and led him over to the couch to sit side-by-side. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock, holding the back of his neck underneath his fluffy curls with one hand and steadying his chin in the other. He licked confidently along Sherlock's beautiful lips, which the omega obediently opened to admit John's probing tongue.

Sherlock was still a rather inexperienced kisser and as John deepened the kiss, he melted in the alpha's strong arms. He focused on the sensations, of John against him, and after some time, experimented chasing John's tongue with his.

Eventually, John broke the kiss and started nuzzling his way across to Sherlock's ear, before continuing down his neck. 

John lavished attention to the soft skin over the muscles and tendons of Sherlock's elegant neck. The omega smelled exquisite to him and the little helpless whimpers he was quietly making were like icing on the cake. John was drowning in Sherlock and he wanted more. John took his time and eventually Sherlock gained the courage to overcome his curiosity and he reached up John's now untucked shirt (when did that happen?) to feel the firm warmth of his abdominal muscles and relish how they tensed and relaxed as John leaned forward to nuzzle at his ear. John ran his hands up and down Sherlock's back and sides. Sherlock was admittedly very aroused, he had never been touched quite like this and his cock had grown about half hard. John laid him down on his back on the couch and undid Sherlock's shirt buttons one at a time. After the last one, he parted the shirt and took his time mouthing at the pale skin of Sherlock's chest.

From this angle, Sherlock could feel John's bare skin beneath his hands more easily. He ran his palms up and down his back, feeling the strong muscles there. John shifted his weight over Sherlock, lifting one knee to straddle his thighs, rising to a more dominant position, his comparatively hefty alpha bulk pressing the omega's lithe frame deeper into the couch.

Sherlock suddenly noticed something that he hadn't registered before that moment. There, pressing firmly against his thigh, he could feel the startling size and hardness of John's cock insistently nudging through his pants. The reality of the situation came flooding back. John wanted sex. Not heat sex, not effortlessly slipping his cock into Sherlock's wet and ready hole, but he was undoubtedly expected to penetrate Sherlock. He was going after the one thing all alphas wanted, and that was going to hurt. Sherlock liked John so much, he wanted to be with him, he liked touching, but he didn't want that. He felt like he had gotten himself in over his head, and he suddenly realized it. His eyes welled with tears and he pushed up on John's chest with his hands, his strength seemed feeble against the bulk of the aroused alpha.

"Please, John." Sherlock's voice barked out seemingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. He was feeling both panicked and disappointed. Panicked at the prospect of having John's giant dick pushed into him and disappointed that he led John this far. Being knotted in heat was a biological imperative, a strangely impersonal means to the end of obtaining relief and pleasure. 

Intercourse outside a heat was something entirely different, both emotionally and, for male omegas, physically. Because the reproductive canal was tightly shut except during the height of a heat, a male omega could only satisfy his alpha's drive to fuck into something by using his ass. And Sherlock didn't want that. He had to tell John and he hated himself for it. Would John be angry? Frustrated? Through the maelstrom of thoughts in his head, Sherlock shook his head back and forth, managing to quietly stutter out, "I'm sorry".

John jerked back in surprise, looking down to see the abrupt distress in Sherlock's eyes. He immediately clambered back and shimmied off the couch to kneel on the floor, adjusting his straining erection through his pants as he did so. He surveyed Sherlock. His hair was a riotous mess, his lips were pink, his cheeks were flushed. He was breathing in deep gasps, his pale hairless chest rising and falling through his open shirt. Had John been a little rough just now? Was he biting? Had he pulled Sherlock's hair? Had he misinterpreted the signals? Maybe he overwhelmed the less experienced omega. The last thing John wanted was for Sherlock to feel pressured into something he wasn't ready for. 

Sherlock sat up and stared down, sweeping the floor with his gaze, looking anywhere but into John's eyes. 

"What's wrong, Love?" John asked, low and quiet. He sat patiently as Sherlock seemed to be searching for words. Sherlock turned his head away and closed his eyes but stayed silent. 

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart," John continued, "did I overwhelm you? Too much? Too fast?" John paused, but Sherlock didn't reply, "Please, Sherlock, if you don't tell me I won't know what I did to upset you."

Sherlock looked down at him. "I'm sorry John, but I don't know if I can give you what you... need." He trailed off, John could tell Sherlock was on the verge of tears. 

"Oh, Sweetheart, what could I possibly need? I have everything I want, right here," he said, giving Sherlock's smaller hands a squeeze, "a beautiful, clever, fun man and best friend. You've made me happier than I can honestly remember ever being."

Sherlock waffled in silent agony for another few seconds before he blurted it out. "Sex, John!" he gasped in a few breaths, then continued, "The times it happened to me, I didn't like being... taken like that... I mean... penetrated."

Realization dawned on John. "Oh, Sherlock, Love, I'm so sorry," he wrapped Sherlock in a firm hug. "The man who did that to you was a monster and if he isn't already dead I am going to kill him first chance I get. A lot of people don't like being penetrated. I don't generally like being penetrated. Regardless of which acts someone prefers or enjoys, if it's forced on them, it will be awful. I would never hurt you like that, Sherlock. Making love is about making your partner feel good and having intimacy, not hurting them."

Several of the things John Watson had just said were intriguing. That John planned to murder Charles Magnussen shouldn't have been a surprise, but it seemed to carry a bit more levity once he said it out loud, if the awful man hadn't already died in agony. And then there was the idea that John, an alpha, had been fucked before. As the receiving party. And he didn't like it. But he described it so casually, he chose that? Egads, why? People did that? And, hang on, was 'making love' what they were doing just now? John Watson. Was making love to him. That thought alone tightened something deep inside his chest.

"Sherlock, come back to me," John had moved back up to the couch, closer, and was now holding Sherlock by the upper arms and looking Sherlock square in the face. Sherlock blinked and focused on him. "There you are," he replied, "give me a chance, there are a lot of loving ways two people can be together, I promise they'll be good for both of us. Trust me. I'm going to take care of you and I'm going to make you feel good. If at anytime it's too much, or you're uncomfortable, or you want to stop for any reason, I want you to tell me. Just say 'stop' and we stop, no questions asked."

"You won't... penetrate me?" Sherlock asked. 

"Oh, no, Sherlock, Love, I won't. I will never do anything that you don't want."

Sherlock was curious. And he did want John. Just being able to touch the chiseled plains of his abs, back, and shoulders had been satisfying. What's more, the thought of John taking pleasure in his body was enough to bring a wave of arousal through his core.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock thought about it. "I want to see you naked," he replied. Of course he had seen John completely nude during his heat and the shower afterwards, but his memory was pretty fuzzy and they were both heavily impaired by hormones. This was Sherlock's first opportunity to really observe the body of John Watson.

John smirked and stood up, "with pleasure," he replied. Unceremoniously, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall from his shoulders, revealing his muscled arms and shoulders. His chest was sparsely covered with golden hairs that formed a trail down the center of this belly, to his navel, and lower to disappear beneath his pants. There was a star-shaped scar on the front of his left shoulder. With great efficiency, John undid his belt and zipper, and slid his pants together with his underwear down to his ankles. He stepped out of the crumpled garments, and stood barefoot and completely exposed in front of Sherlock. 

John had the strong thighs of a rugby player, both knees sporting an array of old scratches and scars. The hair on his legs was thicker and darker than on his chest. But, obviously, Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the one feature of John's body that was most intriguing. Even though his erection was now flagging, John Watson's cock was impressive in size, hanging heavily down against the backdrop of his drooping scrotum that carried his large alpha testicles. The spongy, deflated tissue of the bulbous knot at the base was barely perceptible in its non-rut condition. A series of prominent veins wove down the length to the darker colored mushroom-shaped head peaking out from the generous foreskin. Sherlock looked his fill and noticed that John was getting harder right before his eyes.

"Oh God, Sherlock, the way you're looking at me," John gasped. Sherlock raised his arms, inviting John back to the couch. John stepped forward, swiftly but without aggression, and leaned down to claim Sherlock's mouth in a fiery kiss. Sherlock broke the kiss off and slid his own shirt back off his shoulders. Feeling confident now, he reached for his own belt and zipper but John stilled his hands. "Allow me," he whispered as he finished undoing Sherlock's fly. With a great amount of skill and little fanfare, John somehow managed to lift Sherlock up with one arm and use his other to maneuver his pants and underpants over his bum, down his legs, and off.

Finally they were both completely naked, Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa with John supporting much of his own weight over the smaller omega. John's cock was now fully hard, the foreskin retracted, and a bit of precum dripped onto Sherlock's stomach. The sight of Sherlock, flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded, lips pink, and completely naked and wanting underneath him was almost enough to make him loose his composure. "So beautiful," he whispered as he resumed kissing Sherlock, then set off once again to kiss and nuzzle his way down Sherlock's neck and chest. 

As he went down Sherlock's body, John shimmied back on his knees until he was crouched between Sherlock's legs. When he reached the small, erect, omega cock, he held Sherlock's hips firmly, but gently, and thoroughly scented the area. The smell was heady and intoxicating, it was distinctly Sherlock. He nuzzled his nose against the base and licked across the small scrotum. A small bead of fluid had formed on Sherlock's slit and John just couldn't resist- he engulfed the head in his mouth, collecting the pre-ejaculatory fluid on his tongue and savoring the taste. He heard Sherlock gasp and he looked up to see the disheveled look on the inexperienced man's face.

John slipped his mouth off Sherlock's cock. "Do you want me to stop?" 

Sherlock frantically shook his head from side to side, "No, it's just... really intense." 

"Mmm.. good..." John hummed as he took the organ once again into his mouth. He resolved to dispense less stimulation, reserving his more vigorous techniques. Sherlock's entire cock fit comfortably in John's mouth. He flattened his tongue along the frenulum and pressed the head up against his pallet. God, Sherlock's cock in his mouth was such a turn-on. He couldn't wait to see him lose control and fall apart. He backed off again then engulfed the length once more, sucking gently only when Sherlock's member was once again fully seated against his pallet. Still gently holding the omega's slender hips, he continued his ministrations, enjoying the tastes as well as the delightful sounds trailing from Sherlock's mouth. 

Before long, Sherlock began mumbling, things like "John" and "amazing" and "can't believe it." Sherlock was very sensitive and the frantic warning tugs at John's hair alerted him that Sherlock was about to come. "I'm about to...." Sherlock gasped out and tried to wiggle away. 

John gripped the squirming omega and growled softly, a flare of possessiveness rising inside him. Sherlock was his, and he wanted his cum. Sherlock came, gasping and moaning, with John eagerly swallowing down every drop of the barren fluid. The flavor was unique, different from Sherlock's smell, and distinctly his.

John held Sherlock steady and glanced up to see his face. He watched him ride out the last shakes of the orgasm before he slipped off his sensitive cock. John crept back up, collapsing on his side next to Sherlock, pinning the omega between his bulk and the back of the couch. Sherlock looked completely wrecked and John was filled with the prideful feelings of _I did that_ and _Mine_. He allowed himself to indulge, lightly pushing his cock up against Sherlock's hip, the taste of his omega lingering on his tongue.

Sherlock finally opened his beautiful green eyes and stared up at John. "That was..." he started. "I had no idea alphas... did... that..."

"Hmm..." John hummed as he leaned down to kiss Sherlock. "I have a feeling there are a lot of things that you have no idea about that I could show you."

Sherlock looked down at where John was pressing his hard dick against his thigh and John stilled.

"Oh no, don't stop," Sherlock said with a devilish smile. He reached down, curious to explore, and wrapped first one hand, then both, around John's cock. The skin was silky-soft and when he squeezed it, there was a little bit of give, but not much. Sherlock was honestly surprised at how big it felt, he couldn't circle it with one hand, it was not like his at all. 

"Oh...amazing..." John gasped. Sherlock tried again- thinking about what he liked. He gently ran his hand up John's length, then back down again, pressing over the deflated knot. "So good..." John mumbled as he suddenly shifted again so that he was kneeling over Sherlock. He magically produced a bottle of lube (was it under the couch?) and squirted some into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock continued his exploration of John's cock and the slick-slide of the gel made it so much more intriguing. He squeezed at the head, and circled his hand around the middle. John continued uttering words of encouragement, "That's good," "Yah," "Like that," "So beautiful," and similar things, but also mixed in a good number of whimpers and moans. 

Sherlock watched, amazed, as John came more and more apart right in front of him. It gave him a tremendous feeling of power to see that John trusted him so much, that he had John's most vulnerable part in his hands. As John got close, he began thrusting his hips, pistoning in and out of the ring of Sherlock's hands with more and more vigor. His thrusts got faster and faster and Sherlock stilled his hands, squeezing a bit here and there, but otherwise just watching John come undone. John fucked harder and harder into Sherlock's hands and eventually his thrusts began to loose rhythm. With a low, drawn-out grunt, he pushed down and forward all the way and stilled momentarily. Sherlock felt the first spurt of warmth land on the heal of his hand and run down his arm. John pulled back and pushed in again, then moaned and another strip of creamy alpha semen shot across Sherlock's stomach and onto his small flaccid penis. John pulled away again, less this time, and then pressed back, humming in pleasure as another load of warm liquid dripped onto Sherlock's stomach. After several more, John finally stilled. He settled down on top of Sherlock, his weight pressing Sherlock into the couch felt reassuring.

After a few minutes, John lifted up and kissed Sherlock on the lips. There were copious amounts of John's alpha semen covering Sherlock's stomach, cock, chest, and hands. The creamy white liquid was beginning to congeal. John pridefully ran his hand through the semen on Sherlock's belly, spreading the fluid over the smooth skin. The sight and smell of the omega covered in his cum was absolutely ravishing. Sherlock seemed equally intrigued by the situation. He raised his cum-covered hand, inspected it, and then licked a taste of semen off one finger. It was probably the hottest thing John had ever seen. John collapsed back on top of him. Sherlock was going to be the death of him, and he was going to love every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [DrFish on Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


	18. Betrayal

The two men had a bit of a lie in the next day. Large, heavy rain drops fell from the overcast sky, leaving John's bedroom dimly lit and filled with the soothing sounds of rain. John was comfortable and sleepy, happy to doze all morning with Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was naturally quite energetic, now that he was well, and it was hard for him to spend too much time in bed. He got up, leaving John warm and comfortable under the covers. He showered and dressed in a nice pair of black trousers and a navy blue tailored dress shirt, tucked in, with the top 2 buttons undone. Out in the kitchen, he looked through the cabinets and drawers, and found the ingredients to make cinnamon walnut muffins.

The air was thick with the warm, delicious scents of baking by the time John finally came stumbling bleary eyed into the kitchen. He took in the scene. His gorgeous omega was content and secure in his alpha's kitchen, standing at the sink and displaying his attractive, well-dressed, backside. John sprung across the room, nearly predatory, to grab Sherlock from behind and smother him in wet, enthusiastic kisses all over his face and neck. The younger man squirmed in his hold as John did his best to cover Sherlock in his own scent.

"John!" Sherlock chided as he wiped the wet kisses off his cheek, "I already texted Mrs. Hudson to say I'm coming down." Sherlock headed towards the door with a plate of the still warm muffins. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

John was a little disappointed, but he really did enjoy seeing Sherlock doing so well. He felt they had passed a special milestone in their relationship and he was excited to give Sherlock space and see where life led them. He listened as Sherlock descended the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. Her enthusiastic greeting came drifting up and John heard them both go into her kitchen for tea, muffins, and an undoubtedly long conversation about their various common interests. John was glad Sherlock spoke so easily with Mrs. Hudson. It was time he began associating more with other people, resuming some sort of normalcy. It was time John got back to work.

 _Ah, work_ , John thought as he sat down at his laptop to go through his backlog of hospital e-mails. It really would be time to start again soon. He switched the mouse over to the left side of the computer and scrolled through his inbox. The rain had lightened a bit, the pelting drops against the windows were quieter but still audible. He pecked out responses to some of the more important e-mails and added a few events to his Google calendar: trainings, a department meeting, and a retirement lunch. By the time he finished, Sherlock was still downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock had left his laptop desktop a bit of a mess. The whole screen was covered with files from the McInnis case, so he began to organize the files into folders which he would put in a new parent directory of Sherlock's files on the c drive. He noticed the "nets_by_client_fy2019.xls" spreadsheet and, out of curiosity, he clicked it open. The spreadsheet was multiple pages, ordered alphabetically by last name. As he scrolled through, the biggest earners stood out. Van Berenberg, Farris, George. 

Then, he noticed another large earner that Sherlock hadn't pointed out the night he found the other names: _$179,779.00, Holmes, William Scott_. 

John froze, his index finger suspended over the scroll wheel on the mouse. Must be a coincidence: some other guy with the same name. _Holmes_ , common enough. But the address was in Salisbury. Or, it could be a legitimate investment, it seemed Sherlock's father did have a fair amount of money. Lawyer, one kid, invested wisely. Totally reasonable. But why hadn't Sherlock told him? Moran's name was just a few lines down, surely he had seen it.

John's cell rang. Lestrade. He picked it up.

"John, listen, this is important. It's about Sherlock."

"Yeah?" John swallowed hard, he felt his stomach drop. He'd done this before.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm telling you this over the phone because this has gotten kind of big and I wanted you to know right away. We spent all night at the office lab in Harborside and we've had a chance to interview Christian McInnis in detail. Moran is the leader of the operation, I've got agents out to pick him up now. But, John," Lestrade paused before he continued, more hesitant as he went on, "the Holmes were involved. We went through some of the old files. Chemical orders, laboratory procedures, notes, copies of research articles, spreadsheets. Dating back years. Our chemists have read through the lab notebooks. This is pretty advanced stuff. They were engineering novel designer drugs then farming the production out to other satellite labs. It's a valuable information discovery, I'm sure you understand, with this info, the labs will be able to figure out how to detect these drugs better in abusers' systems. There'll be better ways to help and treat the people that are addicted. This is regional, John. The higher level drugs investigators are coming in and they'll want to interview Sherlock, probably press charges. I'm going to do everything I can, but I wanted you to have a heads-up."

_Why hadn't Sherlock trusted him?_

"John, I'm sorry about this. It's going to be OK. I'm sure there were extenuating circumstances, but you should probably arrange a lawyer for Sherlock."

It made sense. He believed it now. There was no point in telling Lestrade that he saw Holmes on McInnis' client list. That would probably be used against Sherlock in court now. Maybe he should delete the file? He felt a pang of anger, at Sherlock, and a bit of shame at himself because deleting the file would be tampering with evidence. And John would do it. He would risk getting caught, risk his career, if it kept him from loosing Sherlock. It wasn't fair. He finally had what he wanted. They barely just met.

"John, you OK? Look, I'm headed back from Salisbury now. Just call a criminal defense attorney. I can recommend one."

"Yeah. yeah. Lawyer. right." John finally responded, the bewilderment probably audible in his voice.

"I'm texting you the number of a good attorney. Susan Knapp. Call her, John, she'll take care of you."

"Yeah. Got it." John hung up. 

He stared at the screen of his phone as Lestrade's contact info faded away. He looked back up towards the computer, back to his phone. The rainy day atmosphere of the living room which he had found so comforting just minutes ago now felt sinister, foreboding. He put the phone down, got up. He stepped hesitantly through the room, not sure what to do. He found himself staring at the wall by the kitchen. Scared, angry, hurt. His temper flared. He couldn't control it. He raised his hand and with an anguished shout punched the wall. His fist penetrated, ripping through the wallpaper, crumbling the drywall, and stopping only once his arm was fully extended. He pulled his dust covered fist out. Good thing he didn't hit a stud. Actually he didn't care. It probably hurt, but he was numb to it. He wished he could feel it, feel something other than the twisting in his chest, the racing of his heart. He wanted to go to Sherlock, but he needed to calm down first.

Downstairs, John heard hurried footsteps, the back door slammed. A yell, a whimper, commotion. _Sherlock_.

John raced down the stairs, past a startled Mrs. Hudson who had just come to her door. He threw open the back door and barreled out to the landing just in time to see Sebastian Moran leap into the driver's seat of a black sedan and speed away down the alley. 

"SHERLOCK!!" John screamed as he chased after the car. Over his own yells, the groan of the car's engine, and tires skidding over the sandy pavement, he thought he heard Sherlock's muffled voice. The car was getting way, there was no way he could catch it. 

He watched as the car splashed through a muddy puddle, reached the end of the alley, and the break lights glowed. The car turned right and then it was gone.


	19. Resolution

"John, Dear, what happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked as John shoved past her and headed back up to 221B. 

"Sherlock's been kidnapped." John shouted from the top of the stairs. He ran inside and grabbed his cell phone off the desk, quickly dialing Lestrade.

"Greg, it's me, Sherlock's just been taken. It was Moran. He got away in a black sedan- a big American car... like a Cadillac or something." John was headed into the bedroom. He unlocked the safe and grabbed the holstered firearm.

"Oh, God. From Baker Street?"

"Yes, grabbed him in the alley out back."

"I'll put the APB out immediately and get my best officers on it. Do you have any idea where Moran would go?"

Yes! In his panic, John almost didn't think of it: the day Sherlock got his new cell phone, they had installed a GPS tracking app on both their phones and linked them because John had been so worried that something like this might happen. But did Sherlock have his cell? John could only hope.

"John? John!! You there?" Greg was calling him through the phone.

"Yah," John replied as he switched Lestrade to speaker and started scrolling through the contents of his phone's app folder. "There's a GPS tracker on Sherlock's phone." When the application loaded seconds later, he could see that the phone was moving. "Headed south on Salisbury Road, almost to Quimby Street. I'm going." John grabbed his keys and was headed down to the car. He shouted to Mrs. Hudson to stay a 221 Baker Street, keep an ear for the door just in case Sherlock managed to escape and came back. It was wishful thinking, but he had escaped his captor once before. John still had Lestrade connected and he glanced down to see the icon for Sherlock's phone still headed south on Salisbury, leaving town.

He disconnected the Tesla from the charging station in the alley and jumped in, starting the electric motor, switching on the wiper blades, and driving as fast as he safely could down the muddy streets. 

There was conversation at Lestrade's end of the line and he could hear the police siren. John sped down the streets, seconds felt like minutes as he negotiated the few intersections and traffic lights between Montague and Salisbury.

Once he was on Salisbury road, which was wide, 2 lanes in each direction and it would turn into a divided highway outside town, John sped up far above the speed limit. Sherlock was only about 5 miles ahead.

"Still on Salisbury, leaving town. I'm gonna catch up to them." John shouted.

Lestrade's voice was interrupted by static as he responded through the phone "Yeah, keep me updated. We're getting to you as fast as we can."

John kept his eyes on the road, glancing down at his phone to see he was getting closer. Another glance and he saw Sherlock's phone signal had changed directions and was heading away from the main road. After a few more miles John reached the point where they had turned. It was the road leading down to the old papermill, which had been closed for several years. The old sign marking the drive had long since fallen over and tall weeds and pine trees were slowly reclaiming the area.

John turned down the drive. The expensive car bottomed out over the cracked concrete and tree branches raked loudly along the sides as he meandered down the overgrown drive. Down a slight hill and around a bend, he saw the black car, driver's door and trunk open, stopped outside the 10-ft tall chain link fence that surrounded the abandoned building. Neither Moran nor Sherlock were in sight. 

John skidded to a halt next to the black Caddy. "Forthwright Papermill!" he shouted as he grabbed the gun from the holster and leapt from the car, leaving his phone behind. After confirming the sedan was empty, he pulled aside the disconnected section of chain-link and slid through the fence. 

The high walls on the factory portion of the mill were topped with a line of broken windows that loomed forebodingly over the debris-strewn ground below. The door to the front office section of the building was hanging open from the top hinge. Gun drawn, John took a deep breath and as quietly as he could, he slipped inside.

John paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light inside and listened carefully for any sounds from the abandoned factory. It smelt of mildew and urine. He picked his way carefully through the crushed beer cans and broken glass covering the damp stained carpet. Down a hallway with offices on each side, which John carefully cleared one by one, there was a closed steel door that led to the factory. John opened the door slowly and silently entered the open expanse of the main factory.

When it was working, the papermill floor would have been crowded with large machines: ovens and conveyors, churning vats of chemicals and paper pulp, workers with eye goggles and hardhats. Rolls of paper or sheets in stacks would have lined the walls. Now, it was just an empty space, a sad memory of days past, a few piles of refuse, broken pallets, and toppled office furniture here and there. John skirted the edge of the large room, moving carefully towards the back. When he approached the area where the loading bays were, only 20 feet away, he spotted Moran and Sherlock just as they spotted him.

Moran squared to face John. He held Sherlock with his left arm barred across the helpless omega's throat, using him as a shield between himself and John. He held a revolver in his right hand, finger on the trigger, pointing it at Sherlock's temple. Sherlock clenched his teeth, blinking hard and kicking out his feet. His right eye was beginning to swell and a gash on his cheekbone oozed blood. His pale slender fingers grasped at Moran arm at his throat.

"Ah, Dr. Watson," Moran addressed him, his voice echoing loudly in the large empty space. He was visibly disappointed to see John but didn't seem overly concerned. "It took me a little while to figure it out. Should have known you'd snatch this bitch out of the hospital. You alphas are so predictable."

John had his gun drawn, pointed at the pair. There was no way he would risk a shot with the way Moran was holding Sherlock up like a shield.

"What do you want with him?" John spat, his anger boiling to see Moran's hands on the frightened omega.

"Oh, not what _you_ want, I assure you," Moran chuckled with a snide laugh. "This one's practically a genius when it comes to inventing new drugs. We had a perfectly healthy business relationship for years. Once the old man died, he wanted to back out. Refused to work for me. That creep Magnussen, I knew this one would tickle his fancy. Best way to keep these little bitches on a leash. Get an alpha to do it!" Again, Moran's sick laugh boomed through the space.

"John!" Sherlock choked out as he tried to speak.

"Quiet!" Moran yelled, shaking the body in his arms, just for emphasis. "It probably would have worked, but I don't think Magnussen was going to share. No consequence, that McInnis kid, not as smart as this one," Moran scowled, "But much less trouble. And Winthrop was going to take care of the sister. He even helped me off McInnis. Perfect team, we were. Would've got the business back." Moran paused. "You ruined it, Watson. But, now I got this one, I already found another alpha interested in the partnership. If you know what I mean."

Rage boiled in John. He had to calm it. Keep Moran talking. Lestrade should be there soon. He just had to stall a little longer.

"What happened to Magnussen?" John asked.

"Hell if I know. Probably dead by now. Ever seen an alpha with brokebond? It's pretty nasty. I actually saw that animal a few days ago, just a few marbles left. Used to be such a prick, with his suits and fine cars and well-polished glasses. You should see him. Not driving around in those shiny Jags now! Lost an eye somehow. Lurking around in the shadows trying to get his bitch back. Someone should put that animal out of its misery."

Moran tossed Sherlock up a bit in his left arm to refix his grip. Sherlock's neck was still pinned tight, all Sherlock's fingers prying at the arm with the urge to lesson the pressure and open his airway just a little more. John needed more time. 

As an alpha, John had very sensitive hearing. He listened hard- he could hear Sherlock wheezing for breath, Moran grunting in agitation. And then something else, in the distance. The _thump thump thump_ of an approaching helicopter. Suddenly, John realized why Moran came here, why he abandoned the car out front and hadn't tried to escape. Moran was the one stalling for time. He was waiting for the helicopter that was coming for him and Sherlock.

Over the days that followed, John would replay the next several seconds in time again and again in his head until the exact sequence of events was jumbled and disjointed. But it happened something like this: The sound of the approaching helicopter grew louder, so that Moran must have been able to hear it. Sherlock locked his horrified eyes on John, and it was sheer agony because, at that moment, John could do nothing to comfort him. He had his gun trained on Moran still. He was just waiting for the right chance to shoot. The opportunity would come, they just needed patience. 

John broke his gaze from Moran when he heard a loud sound behind him. It was an anguished groan- a strangled human yell of rage mixed with pain. Movement at the corner of his vision caught his attention. He watched as the deranged form of what must have once been Charles Magnussen leapt from the shadows and charged at Moran.

The creature was possessed with lightning speed. Moran pointed the gun towards the filthy, naked, one-eyed attacker, firing one shot before Magnussen was at his throat. Moran fell back, releasing Sherlock and dropping the gun to claw at the beast on top of him. Sherlock ran to John, John clutched Sherlock tightly to his side, gun still drawn and pointing at the pair on the ground. Moran wasn't fighting back anymore. Magnusson bit and ripped at the man's throat, the sheer brutality of it momentarily beckoning John back to the war. John pressed Sherlock's face to his chest to shield him from the sight. He stood ready to pull the trigger, willing to shoot either or both men.

Magnussen stopped his attack and rounded towards them on his hands and knees. His face was stained with blood, the jagged socket where his eye had once been was crusted with blood and pus. He sniffed the air, fixing his one eye on Sherlock. He was in a full rage, no longer human. " _MINE_ ," he grunted, just barely understandable, and lunged at them. 

John pulled the trigger. In the light of the muzzle flash, the figure fell to the ground as the rapport of the 9 mm echoed through the factory. John stepped forward and put two more shots into the still flailing body. The figure stilled. With the exception a few final agonal gasps from the fallen bodies, the space was finally quiet. Even the distant sound of the helicopter was gone.

John eased Sherlock away from his body and kneeled down to face him. Sherlock glanced to the carnage on the floor, then back at John, too shocked to speak. John placed the gun on the floor and reached his hands to Sherlock's cheeks. He angled the omega to the light in order to see his face better, but he didn't touch the cheek bone, worried it might be broken. On his neck, bruises were forming and tears streamed down Sherlock's face from the struggle to breath.

"Sherlock, Love, are you hurt anywhere else?" John asked.

Sherlock choked and coughed. He gave a slight shake of his head before dropping his eyes from John and aiming his vacant stare back towards the bodies on the floor.

A dam broke in John. He drew Sherlock in, clenching him close to his chest. "Oh, Sherlock," he choked out, fighting back the urge to cry. "Everything's going to be OK now." He loosened his grip as Sherlock coughed more. Sherlock's knees buckled and John caught him. He stood up from his crouching position and hoisting the omega up in his arms. "I love you, Sherlock," he whispered. "I'm going to take you home."

He clutched Sherlock to his chest, assured by the sound of his quick but steady breaths. With Sherlock in his arms, he traversed the factory floor, returning to the office area to leave the way he came in. As they emerged from the darkness of the factory into the bright sunshine breaking through the clouds, John could hear police sirens approaching on the main road. He looked down at Sherlock, his green eyes had cleared and he now looked up at John. At that moment, John knew, even if it was just the two of them against the world, everything was going to be OK.


	20. Precious

Lestrade and Donovan arrived first, siren blaring, followed by a small army of police cars and ambulances. Sherlock was passive as he sat on the rear bumper of one of the ambulances with John crouched down in front of him. The medics had deferred to John who was now shining a light in Sherlock's eyes and gingerly palpating around his throat and facial bones. The handsome navy blue shirt Sherlock had put on that morning was wet and soiled with blood and dirt. John had gently unbuttoned it and cast the shirt aside and the now shirtless omega was wrapped in a clean, dry blanket.

The factory was crawling with investigators and the coroner had just arrived. Lestrade broke off from the group of officers and crime scene technicians he had been coordinating to join John and Sherlock at the back of the ambulance. The haggard expression on his face took on an edge of concern when he saw the blanket-wrapped omega with a black eye and blooming bruise. He felt terrible because his agency failed to contain both Magnussen and Moran when it was their responsibility to keep Sherlock safe. Someone had dropped the ball and he was eager to find out who and how. At the moment though, he was just relieved they hadn't lost the omega altogether. 

"Sherlock, John," Lestrade nodded awkwardly. "Are you badly hurt, Sherlock?" 

John was on edge, there was a lot to talk about with Lestrade but he didn't want to do it now. He was angry, of course, but mostly scared they would try to separate Sherlock from him for the investigation. Keeping one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, he stood up to his full height and squared his shoulders to face Lestrade.

"I can't really tell yet, Greg," John snapped, "He's shook up and he needs x-rays, and I don't really want him talking to you or anyone else before we get a lawyer." Sherlock had dropped his gaze but showed no other reaction.

"John, for God's sake, it's me! We've known each other for 20 years, all I want is to help you both. There's a pair of corpses inside and a library of evidence in Christian's lab. Sherlock, please believe me, I'm so sorry you've gone through all this. It's our fault Moran got to you. I'm sorry. Me and the McInnis kids and their entire family are so thankful that you cracked that case, we wouldn't have been able to without you two." Sherlock was looking at Lestrade now. John was looking suitably chastised for his outburst. "Things are going to be alright," Lestrade continued, "I know whatever led to the two bodies inside was self defense. John, given your status as a war vet and a respected community member, I just need to ask you a few questions then you'll both be free to go. Once you lawyer-up, we can deal with the rest of this tomorrow, alright?"

John nodded in understanding.

In answer to Lestrade's questions, they identified the two dead people inside the factory. John described the morning's events, confirming Magnussen had killed Moran and John had shot Magnussen in self-defense. Sherlock added a few brusque details, mainly confirming that Moran did plan to meet a helicopter at the mill and make an escape. The conversation was brief and perfunctory, for which John was thankful. As promised, Lestrade gave them permission to go and John insisted on taking Sherlock to the hospital himself. John thanked him.

"Really, John, thank you. And try not to worry, but do get legal counsel. We've got a lot of evidence in your and Sherlock's favor that mitigates his participation in Moran's operation. I'm betting it will be enough to convince a sympathetic jury that Sherlock doesn't deserve jail time."

With a tight smile, John nodded to show his understanding. He walked Sherlock back to his car, gripping him gently by both elbows and keeping him close. The front fender of the Tesla was cracked and the shiny black pain was scratched deep down both sides, but John didn't care. Once Sherlock was settled into the passenger seat, John closed the door and went around to get into the driver's seat and start the electric motor.

They returned back up the drive, silently weaving around a few more police vehicles that were just arriving. Back on the main road, John reached over to lace his fingers with Sherlock's. The omega squeezed back. The silence was somber but comfortable. They were both feeling so much, the physical contact was enough and there was no conversation as they drove directly to St. Mary's.

It was a weekday afternoon and the emergency room at the suburban hospital was not very busy, so they got in and out fairly quickly. Dr. Jones was on duty and showed no signs of holding a grudge against the omega. Quite the opposite, he was a little concerned to see him back so soon. He respected John, though, and he was glad to see them together, even in the state they were. The pair provided him with limited information, but used Sherlock's true identity and truthfully told him the injury to Sherlock's face had been caused by pistol whip and the police were already aware. The x-rays looked good, no broken bones, so they were sent home with instructions to keep a close watch for signs of infection or complications. 

John had texted Mrs. Hudson to let her know everything was alright and they were coming home. When the pair got back to Baker Street they went straight to the bathroom where Sherlock undressed and got into the tub to wash away as many vestiges of the day's events as he could. John sat with him, watching as he rinsed the soap from the slender, bruised shoulders. It was a bit like deja vu, especially for John, but things were so different now than they were a week ago. In particular, their relationship was different. John felt none of the uncertainty that he had when he first took Sherlock home. He was resolved that he wasn't going to let Sherlock go, that he wanted them to be together, forever.

Sherlock had been pensive and quiet, despite gentle assurances from John. After his bath, Sherlock dressed in the pajamas Mrs. Hudson had gifted him and sat on the couch in the living room. With John's insistence, he ate a cinnamon walnut muffin and took an ibuprofen.

John thought he just needed time and space. He was in the kitchen washing up when he heard Sherlock break his silence. Speaking his name almost too quietly to be heard. 

"Yes, Love?" John asked as he came in and sat next to Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated, but he felt he owed John the truth.

"I had just started high school when my dad suddenly got sick. Lung cancer, pretty advanced. The prognosis was bad."

John didn't interrupt, he listened carefully.

"We met Moran at the hospital. He was... interested... in me. He had connections, he could get experimental pharmaceuticals for my dad, in exchange for some of my time. I started out doing simple tasks for him. He had just started up a small-scale meth operation and needed to move the drugs out to a bigger market. People never suspect the pretty omega. I would drug mule or be a lookout. You know, sit on a bench in the park, patiently wait for my _chaperone_ to finish a business conversation. If someone took notice, I was good at redirecting their attention. Trivial things like that."

"Meth is too much risk for the amount of money. I was getting tired of the dumb omega routine. I convinced Moran to let me try making something new. Obviously I was pretty good at it. The first party drug we sold the formula and procedure to a guy Moran knew. Moran wanted more, so he set up first one then several satellite labs to manufacture the new drugs for direct sale. I made several new formulas over the years that were very successful." Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I knew it was wrong, but the mindless yuppies living off their wealthy parents, doing shots of Jaeger and popping pills in clubs had a choice, my father didn't. I got ten extra years with my dad because with Moran and the money, he got treatments."

John sat quietly. He was thankful Sherlock was finally coming clean to him, he knew it was a requirement for Sherlock to heal and move on, even though he didn't agree with what Sherlock did.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. He looked up into John's eyes, then away. "I wish there had been another way. But, I probably would do the same thing all over if I had another chance. I am truly sorry for lying to you and disappointing you. I'm sorry I'm not the person you thought I was. I... understand...," Sherlock hesitated, "if you want me to... go away." Sherlock finally finished. He clutched his hands in his lap, his body language closed and guarded, eyes cast down and away from John. He looked scared and alone, battered and bruised, but resigned to his fate. The sight wrenched at John's core more than just about anything he'd ever seen.

John slid to his knees from the couch and crouched down in front of Sherlock in order to get into his line of sight. He pulled the omega's hands away from his lap and held them in his own, before bringing them up to his lips for a single reverent kiss. How could Sherlock be so hard on himself? Yes, he hurt people, but he was just a child when he got mixed up with Moran. Sherlock was the victim, tossed into a cruel set of circumstances that he coped with the best he could.

"Sherlock, you are very precious to me. I wish you could understand how much," John seemed to be searching for words. "I was so alone, and then I met you. You saved me, Sherlock." 

A tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek. That made things worse, actually, because now John had to throw away his own happiness when he cast Sherlock out of his life. He swallowed hard. He had nothing to say, but he wanted to show John that he understood, so he nodded.

"I can't bear to lose you again. I love you, Sherlock. I love you the way you are now and the way you have always been. I will always love you. I will never abandon you or send you away." John paused. This was difficult to say, but it was the truth. "Even if you've done things in the past you aren't proud of, or even if you've done horrible things and don't feel any regret at all for them, I don't care. I want to be together with you. I. Love. You. I want you to stay with me."

Sherlock looked down at the man kneeling before him. More tears fell from Sherlock's eyes and he was now outwardly gasping and sniffling. He pulled his hands from John's while simultaneously leaning towards him, an unspoken request to be held. John heard it loud and clear, and wrapped his arms around the overwhelmed young man. He stayed like that, rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's back, occasionally kissing his hair, and whispering encouraging and nurturing things. "I love you" and "it's alright, you can cry if you need to." After some time, John's knees began to ache, so he stood up, lifting Sherlock from his feet and pulling him over to the couch. He sat down with Sherlock on his lap.

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes. He was feeling a twinge of fear that Sherlock would misunderstand or reject him. He wanted to be clear. "I'm a flawed man, Sherlock. But I want you to be with me. Give me the privilege of caring for you and protecting you. Stay here, at Baker Street, with me. Let's live our lives the way we want, together. We'll hold hands in public and go on dates. I'll keep you through your heats. I'll bring you back to meet my mom and my sister, I'll show you where I grew up. You can finish your education or work with Greg or do whatever you want. You deserve to be happy, but I want you to be happy with me." 

The tears fell freely from Sherlock's gorgeous green eyes. The last year had been awful, but he'd made it through. He had come out of the dark tunnel and was now underneath the bright clear sky. Moran was gone. Magnussen was gone. He wasn't afraid anymore. His father was finally at peace. He had an ally in Greg Lestrade. He could work with the police to help in the fight against those who sought to damage the community and people's lives for their own greed. He had the chance to redeem himself. 

Most of all, he had John. John looked at Sherlock and only saw good. John who thought he was precious. John made him feel loved and safe, and accepted Sherlock for who he was, despite his past. For the first time since he could remember, Sherlock felt he had a future, and it was here, with this amazing man. 

Sherlock leaned against John's warm chest, wrapping his arms around him and lowering his head to rest on the alpha's shoulder. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation of finally being home. "I am happy with you, John Watson. So, yes, let's share all those things and whatever else the future holds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everybody, that's the end for now, though this Sherlock and John do still have lots of relationship milestones to reach together, so perhaps there will be an epilogue or 1-shot someday (though I do not have one in the works at the moment). Thank you to all those who read, enjoyed, left kudos, or commented on this fic, especially my frequent flyers (you know who you are...)! I enjoyed sharing this story with you and I hope it warmed your heart at least a little in these trying times. 
> 
> I have another Johnlock story I'm working on right now, I hope to have it finished and ready for sharing eventually. It's not an a/b/o but it does have the dominant/caring/experienced John and vulnerable/hurt/inexperienced Sherlock dynamic. I will post a notification on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish) to let you know when it is up on AO3. My best wishes to you all, please take care of yourselves, and thank you for being in this fandom!


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